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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 



COMPLETE IN TWO VOLUMES. 
VOLUME II. 



BOSTON: 
TIOKNOR AND FIELDS 

M DCCC LXIII. 



/t 



f 1 S"Q 



tk** B? C? 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by 

TlCKNOR AND FIELDS, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of 
Massachusetts. 



Library ©f Congress 
By transfer from 
State department. 



* 4V 9 1925 



RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. 0. HOUGHTON 



CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. 

SONGS OP LABOR, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Page 

Dedieation 3 

The Ship-builders 5 

The Shoemakers 7 

The Drovers 10 

The Fishermen 13 

The Huskers 15 

The Lumbermen 20 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The Angels of Buena Vista 27 

Forgiveness 31 

Barclay of Ury 31 

What the Voice said 35 

To Delaware 38 

Worship 39 

The Demon of the Study 41 

The Pumpkin 44 

Extract from "A New England Legend." 46 

Hampton Beach. U' 48 

Lines, written on hearing of the Death of Silas Wright, 

of New York 51 

Lines, accompanying Manuscripts presented to a 

Friend .' 52 

The Reward 54 

Raphael 55 

Lucy Hooper 58 

Channing 61 

To the Memory of Charles B. Storrs. 64 

Lines on the Death of S. 0. Torrey 67 

A Lament. 68 

Daniel Wheeler 70 

Daniel NeaU 74 

To my Friend on the Death of his Sister 76 



IV CONTENTS. 



Gone 77 

The Lake-side 79 

The Hill-top 80 

On receiving an Eagle's Quill from Lake Superior. . 83 

Memories 85 

The Legend of St. Mark 88 

The Well of Loch Maree 91 

To my -Sister , . 92 

Autumn Thoughts 93 

Calef in Boston, 1692 94 

To Pius IX 95 

Elliott 98 

Ichabod ! 99 

The Christian Tourists 100 

The Men of Old 102 

The Peace Convention at Brussels 104 

The Wish of To-day 107 

Our State 108 

All's Well 109 

Seed Time and Harvest 110 

To A. K Ill 

THE CHAPEL OP THE HERMITS, AND OTHER POEMS. 

The Chapel of the Hermits 117 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Questions of Life 131 

The Prisoners of Naples 136 

Moloch in State Street 138 

The Peace of Europe— 1852 140 

Wordsworth 142 

To 143 

In Peace 1 44 

Benedicite 145 

Pictures 147 

Derne 148 

Astrcea 152 

Invocation 153 

The Cross 154 

Eva 155 

To Fredrika Bremer 156 

April 157 

Stanzas for the Times — 1850 158 

A Sabbath Scene 160 

Remembrance 163 



CONTENTS. 



The Poor Voter on Election Day 165 

Trust 166 

Kathleen 167 

First-day Thoughts 170 

Kossuth 171 

To my old Schoolmaster 172 

THE PANORAMA, AND OTHER POEMS. 

The Panorama 181 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Summer "by the Lake-side 199 

The Hermit of the Thebaid 203 

Burns 206 

William Forster 210 

Rantoul 213 

The Dream of Pio Nono.. 216 

Tauler 218 

Lines 220 

The Voices 221 

The Hero 224 

My Dream 227 

The Barefoot Boy 230 

Flowers in Winter 233 

The Rendition 235 

Lines 236 

The Fruit-Gift 238 

A Memory 239 

ToC. S 240 

The Kansas Emigrants 241 

Song of the Slaves in the Desert 242 

Lines 243 

The New Exodus 244 

The Haschish 246 

BALLADS. 

Mary Garvin 251 

Maud Muller 257 

The Ranger 261 

LATER POEMS. 

The Last Walk in Autumn. • 269 

The Mayflowers 277 

Burial of Barbour 278 



VI CONTENTS. 

Page 

To Pennsylvania 28C 

The Pass of the Sierra 281 

The Conquest of Finland 283 

A Lav of Old Time 285 

What of the Day ?. 287 

The First Flowers 288 

My Namesake 289 

Notks 29& 



SONGS OF LABOR, 

AND 

OTHER POEMS. 

1850. 



DEDICATION. 

I would the gift I offer here 

Might' graces from thy favor take, 
And, seen through Friendship's atmosphere, 
On softened lines and coloring, wear 
The unaccustomed light of beauty, for thy sake. 

Few leaves of Fancy's spring remain : 

But what I have I give to thee, — 
The o'er-sunned bloom of summer's plain, 
And paler flowers, the latter rain 
Calls from the westering sloDe of life's autumnal 
lea. 

Above the fallen groves of green, 

Where youth's enchanted forest stood, 
Dry root and mossed trunk between, 
A sober after-growth is seen, 
As springs the pine where falls the gay-leafed 
maple wood ! 

Yet birds will sing, and breezes play 

Their leaf-harps in the sombre tree ; 
And through the bleak and wintry day 
It keeps its steady green alway, — 
So, even my after-thoughts may have a charm for 
thee. 

Art's perfect forms no moral need, 

And beauty is its own excuse ; * 

But for the dull and flowerless weed 

Some healing virtue still must plead, 

And the rough ore must find its honors in its use. 



4 DEDICATION. 

So haply these, my simple lays 

Of homely toil, may serve to show 
The orchard bloom and tasselled maize 
That skirt and gladden duty's ways, 
The unsung beauty hid life's common things below ! 

Haply from them the toiler, bent 

Above his forge or plough, may gain 
A manlier spirit of content, 
And feel that life is wisest spent 
Where the strong working hand makes strong the 
working brain. 

The doom which to the guilty pair 

Without the walls of Eden came, 
Transforming sinless ease to care 
And rugged toil, no more shall bear 
The burden of old crime, or mark of primal 
shame. 

A blessing now — a curse no more ; 

Since He, whose name we breathe with 
awe, 
The coarse mechanic vesture wore,— 
A poor man toiling with the poor, 
In labor, as in prayer, fulfilling the same law 



SONGS OF LABOR. 



THE SHIP-BUILDERS. 

The sky is ruddy in the East, 

The earth is gray below, 
And, spectral in the river-mist, 

The ship's white timbers show. 
Then let the sounds of measured stroke 

And grating saw begin ; 
The broad-axe to the gnarled oak, 

The mallet to the pin ! 

Hark ! — roars the bellows, blast on blast, 

The sooty smithy jars, 
And fire-sparks, rising far and fast, 

Are fading with the stars. 
All day for us the smith shall stand 

Beside that flashing forge ; 
All day for us his heavy hand 

The groaning anvil scourge. 

From far-off hills, the panting team 

For us is toiling near ; 
For us the raftsmen down the stream 

Their island barges steer. 
Kings out for us the axe-man's stroke 

In forests old and still, — 
For us the century-circled oak 

Falls crashing down his hill. 



SONGS OF LABOR. 

Up ! — up ! — in nobler toil than ours 

No craftsmen bear a part : 
We make of Nature's giant powers 

The slaves of human Art. 
Lay rib to rib and beam to beam, 

And drive the treenails free ; 
Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam 

Shall tempt the searching sea ! 

Where'er the keel of our good ship 

The sea's rough field shall plough — 
Where'er her tossing spars shall drip 

With salt-spray caught below — 
That ship must heed her master's beck, 

Her helm obey his hand, 
And seamen tread her reeling deck 

As if they trod the land. 

Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak 

Of Northern ice may peel ; 
The sunken rock and coral peak 

May grate along her keel ; 
And know we well the painted shel* 

We give to wind and wave, 
Must float, the sailor's citadel, 

Or sink, the sailor's grave ! 

Ho ! — strike away the bars and blocks, 

And set the good ship free ! 
Why lingers on these dusty rocks 

The young bride of the sea ? 
Look ! how she moves adown the grooves, 

In graceful beauty now ! 
How lowly on the breast she loves 

Sinks down her virgin prow ! 

God bless her ! wheresoe'er the breeze 

Her snowy wing shall fan, 
Aside the frozen Hebrides, 



THE SHOEMAKERS. 

Or sultry Hindostan ! 
Where'er, in mart or on the main, 

With peaceful flag unfurled, 
She helps to wind the silken chain 

Of commerce round the world ! 

Speed on the ship ! — But let her bear 

No merchandise of sin, 
No groaning cargo of despair 

Her roomy hold within. 
No Lethean drug for Eastern lands, 

Nor poison-draught for ours ; 
But honest fruits of toiling hands 

And Nature's sun and showers. 

Be hers the Prairie's golden grain, ' 

The Desert's golden sand, 
The clustered fruits of sunny Spain, 

The spice of Morning-land ! 
Her pathway on the open main 

May blessings follow free, 
And glad hearts welcome back again 

Her white sails from the sea ! 



THE SHOEMAKERS. 

Ho ! workers of the old time styled 

The Gentle Craft of Leather ! 
Young brothers of the ancient guild, 

Stand forth once more together ! 
Call out again your long array, 

In the olden merry manner ! 
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day, 

Fling out your blazoned banner 1 

Rap, rap ! upon the well-worn stone 
How falls the polished hammer ! 



SONGS OF LABOR. 

Rap, rap ! the measured sound has grown 

A quick and merry clamor. 
Now shape the sole ! now deftly curl 

The glossy vamp around it, 
And bless the while the bright-eyed girl 

Whose gentle fingers bound it ! 

For you, along the Spanish main 

A hundred keels are ploughing ; 
For you, the Indian on the plain 

His lasso-coil is throwing ; 
For you, deep glens with hemlock dark 

The woodman's fire is fighting ; 
For you, upon the oak's gray bark, 

The woodman's axe is smiting. 

For you, from Carolina's pine 

The rosin-gum is stealing ; 
For you, the dark-eyed Florentine 

Her silken skein is reeling ; 
For you, the dizzy goat-herd roams 

His rugged Alpine ledges ; 
For you, round all her shepherd homes, 

Bloom England's thorny hedges. 

The foremost still, by day or night, 

On moated mound or heather, 
Where'er the need of trampled right 

Brought toiling men together ; 
Where the free burghers from the wall 

Defied the mail-clad master, 
Than yours, at Freedom's trumpet-call, 

No craftsmen rallied faster. 

Let foplings sneer, let fools deride- — 

Ye heed no idle scorner ; 
Free hands and hearts are still your pride, 

And duty done, your honor. 
Ye dare to trust, for honest fame. 



THE SHOEMAKERS. 

The jury Time empanels, 
And leave to truth each noble name 
Which glorifies your annals. 

Thy songs, Han Sachs, are living yet, 

In strong and hearty German ; 
And Bloomfield's lay, and Gifford's wit, 

And patriot fame of Sherman ; 
Still from his book, a mystic seer, 

The soul of Behmen teaches, 
And England's priestcraft shakes to hear 

Of Fox's leathern breeches. 

The foot is yours ; where'er it falls, 

It treads your well-wrought leather, 
On earthen floor, in marble halls, 

On carpet, or on heather. 
Still there the sweetest charm is found 

Of matron grace or vestal's, 
As Hebe's foot bore nectar round 

Among the old celestials ! 

Rap ! rap ! — your stout and bluff brogan, 

With footsteps slow and weary, 
May wander where the sky's blue span 

Shuts down upon the prairie. 
On Beauty's foot, your slippers glance, 

By Saratoga's fountains, 
Or twinkle down the summer dance 

Beneath the Crystal Mountains ! 

The red brick to the mason's hand, 

The brown earth to the tiller's, 
The shoe in yours shall wealth command, 

Like fairy Cinderella's ! 
As they who shunned the household maid 

Beheld the crown upon her, 
So all shall see your toil repaid 

With hearth and home and honor. 



10 SONGS OF LABOR. 

Then let the toast be freely quaffed, 

In water cool and brimming — 
" All honor to the good old Craft, 

Its merry men and women ! " 
Call out again your long array, 

In the old time's pleasant manner ; 
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day, 

Fling out his blazoned banner ! 



THE DROVERS. 

Through heat and cold, and shower and sun, 

Still onward cheerly driving ! 
There's life alone in duty done, 

And rest alone in striving. 
But see ! the day is closing cool, 

The woods are dim before us ; 
The white fog of the way-side pool 

Is creeping slowly o'er us. 

The night is falling, comrades mine, 

Our foot-sore beasts are weary, 
And through yon elms the tavern sign 

Looks out upon us cheery. 
The landlord beckons from his door, 

His beechen fire is glowing ; 
These ample barns, with feed in store, 

Are filled to overflowing. 

From many a valley frowned across 

By brows of rugged mountains ; 
From hill-sides where, through spongy moss, 

Gush out the river fountains ; 
From quiet farm-fields, green and low, 

And bright with blooming clover ; 
From vales of corn the wandering crow 

No richer hovers over ; 



THE DROVERS. 1J 

Day after day our way has been, 

O'er many a hill and hollow ; 
By lake and stream, by wood and glen. 

Our stately drove we follow. 
Through dust-clouds rising thick and dun, 

As smoke of battle o'er us, 
Their white horns glisten in the sun, 

Like plumes and crests before us. 

We see them slowly climb the hill, 

As slow behind it sinking ; 
Or, thronging close, from road-side rill, 

Or sunny lakelet, drinking. 
Now crowding in the narrow road, 

In thick and struggling masses, 
They glare upon the teamster's load, 

Or rattling coach that passes. 

Anon, with toss of horn and tail, 

And paw of hoof, and bellow, 
They leap some farmer's broken pale, 

O'er meadow-close or fallow. 
Forth comes the startled good-man ; foHh 

Wife, children, house-dog, sally, 
Till once more on their dusty path 

The baffled truants rally. 

We drive no starvelings, scraggy grown, 

Loose-legged, and ribbed and bony, 
Like those who grind their noses down 

On pastures bare and stony — 
Lank oxen, rough as Indian dogs, 

And cows too lean for shadows, 
Disputing feebly with the frogs 

The crop of saw-grass meadows ! 

In our good drove, so sleek and fair, 

No bones of leanness rattle ; 
No tottering hide-bound ghosts are there, 

Or Pharaoh's evil cattle. 



12 SONGS OF LABOR. 

Each stately beeve bespeaks the hand 

That fed him unrepining ; 
The fatness of a goodly land 

In each dun hide is shining. 

We've sought them where, in warmest nooks. 

The freshest feed is growing, 
By sweetest springs and clearest brooks 

Through honeysuckle flowing ; 
Wherever hill-sides, sloping south, 

Are bright with early grasses, 
Or, tracking green the lowland's drouth, 

The mountain streamlet passes. 

But now the day is closing cool, 

The woods are dim before us, 
The white fog of the way-side pool 

Is creeping slowly o'er us. 
The cricket to the frog's bassoon 

His shrillest time is keeping ; 
The sickle of yon setting moon 

The meadow-mist is reaping. 

The night is falling, comrades mine, " 

Our foot-sore beasts are weary, 
And through yon elms the tavern sign 

Looks out upon us cheery. 
To-morrow, eastward with our charge 

We'll go to meet the dawning, 
Ere yet the pines of Kearsarge 

Have seen the sun of morning. 

When snow-flakes o'er the frozen earth, 

Instead of birds, are flitting ; 
When children throng the glowing hearth, 

And quiet wives are knitting ; 
While in the fire-light strong and clear 

Young eyes of pleasure glisten, 
To tales of all we see and hear 

The ears of home shall listen. 



THE FISHERMEN. 13 



By many a Northern lake and hill, 

From many a mountain pasture, 
Shall Fancy play the Drover still, 

And speed the long night faster. 
Then let us on, through shower and 

And heat and cold, be driving ; 
There's life alone in duty done, 

And rest alone in striving. 



THE FISHERMEN. 

Hurrah ! the seaward breezes 

Sweep down the bay amain ; 
Heave up, my lads, the anchor ! 

Run up the sail again ! 
Leave to the lubber landsmen 

The rail-car and the steed ; 
The stars of heaven shall guide us, 

The breath of heavec. shall speed. 

From the hill-top looks the steeple, 

And the light-house from the sand ; 
And the scattered pines are waving 

Their farewell from the land. 
One glance, my lads, behind us, 

For the homes we leave one sigh, 
Ere we take the change and chances 

Of the ocean and the sky. 

Now brothers, for the icebergs 

Of frozen Labrador, 
Floating spectral in the moonshine, 

Along the low, black shore ! 
Where like snow the gannet's feathers 

On Brador's rocks are shed, 
And the noisy murr are flying, 

Like black scuds, overhead ; 



14 « SONGS OF LABOR. 



And the sharp reef lurks below, 
And the white squall smites in summer. 

And the autumn tempests blow ; 
Where, through gray and rolling vapor, 

From evening unto morn, 
A thousand boats are hailing, 

Horn answering unto horn. 

Hurrah ! for the Red Island, 

With the white cross on its crown ! 
Hurrah ! for Meccatina, 

And its mountains bare and brown f 
Where the Caribou's tall antlers 

O'er the dwarf-wood freely toss, 
And the footstep of the Mickmack 

Has no sound upon the moss. 

There we'll drop our lines, and gather 

Old Ocean's treasures in, 
Where'er the mottled mackerel 

Turns up a steel-dark fin. 
The sea's our field of harvest, 

Its scaly tribes our grain ; 
We'll reap the teeming waters 

As at home they reap the plain ! 

Our wet hands spread the carpet, 

And light the hearth of home ; 
From our fish, as in the old time, 

The silver coin shall come. 
As the demon fled the chamber 

Where the fish of Tobit lay, 
So ours from all our dwellings 

Shall frighten Want away. 

Though the mist upon our jackets 

In the bitter air congeals, 
And our lines wind stiff and slowly 

From off the frozen reels ; 



THE HUSKERS. 15 

Though the fog be dark around us, 
And the storm blow high and loud, 

We will whistle down the wild wind, 
And laugh beneath the cloud ! 

In the darkness as in daylight, 

On the water as on land, 
God's eye is looking on us, 

And beneath us is his hand ! 
Death will find us soon or later, 

On the deck or in the cot ; 
And we cannot meet him better 

Than in working out our lot. 

Hurrah ! — hurrah ! — the west wind 

Comes freshening down 1 the bay, 
The rising sails are filling — 

Give way, my lads, give way ! 
Leave the coward landsman clinging 

To the dull earth, like a weed — 
The stars of heaven shall guide us, 

The breath of heaven shall speed ! 



THE HUSKERS. 

It was late in mild October, and the long autumnal 
rain 

Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with 
grass again ; 

The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the 
woodlands gay 

With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadow- 
flowers of May. 

Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun 
rose broad and red, 



16 SONGS OF LABOR. 

At first a rayless disc of fire, he brightened as he 

sped; 
Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and 

subdued, 
On the corn-fields and the orchards, and softly 

pictured wood. 

And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the 

night, 
He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow 

light; 
Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified 

the hill ; 
And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, 

greener still. 

And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught 

glimpses of that sky, 
Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, 

they knew not why ; 
And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the 

meadow brooks, 
Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of 

sweet looks. 

From spire and barn, looked westerly the patient 

weather-cocks ; 
But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as 

rocks. 
No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel's 

dropping shell, 
And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low 

rustling as they fell. 

The summer grains were harvested ; the stubble- 
fields lay dry, 
Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the 



pale-green waves of rye ; 
still, 



But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed 
with wood, 



THE HUSKERS. 17 

Ungathered, bleacliing in the sun, the heavy corn 
crop stood. 

Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through 

husks that, dry and sere, 
Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the 

yellow ear ; 
Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a 

verdant fold, 
And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's 

sphere of gold. 

There wrought the busy harvesters ; and many a 

creaking wain 
Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk 

and grain ; 
Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank 

down, at last, 
And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in 

brightness passed. 

And lo ! as through the western pines, on meadow, 

stream and pond, 
Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire 

beyond, 
Slowly o'er the Eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory 

shone, 
And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into 

one! 

As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed 

away, 
And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil 

shadows lay ; 
From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet 

without name, 
Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry 

huskers came. 
vol. n. 2 



18 SONGS OF LABOR. 

Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforka 

in the mow, 
Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant 

scene below ; 
The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears 

before, 
And laughing eyes and busy hands and browa 

cheeks glimmering o'er. 

Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look ami 

heart, 
Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart ; 
While, up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling 

in its shade, 
At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy 

children played. 

Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young 

and fair, 
Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of 

soft brown hair, 
The master of the village school, sleek of hair and 

smooth of tongue, 
To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking- 

ballad sung. 



THE CORN SONG. 

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard ! 

Heap high the golden corn ! 
No richer gift has Autumn poured 

From out her lavish horn ! 

Let other lands, exulting, glean 

The apple from the pine, 
The orange from its glossy green, 

The cluster from the vine ; 



THE HUSKERS. 19 

We better love the hardy gift 

Our rugged vales bestow, 
To cheer us when the storm shall drift 

Our harvest-fields with snow. 

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers, 
Our ploughs their furrows made, 

While on the hills the sun and showers 
Of changeful April played. 

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, 

Beneath the sun of May, 
And frightened from our sprouting grain 

The robber crows away. 

All through the long, bright days of June, 

Its leaves grew green and fair, 
And waved in hot midsummer's noon 

Its soft and yellow hair. 

And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves, 

Its harvest time has come, 
We pluck away the frosted leaves, 

And bear the treasure home. 

There, richer than the fabled gift 

Apollo showered of old, 
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, 

And knead its meal of gold. 

Let vapid idlers loll in silk, 

Around their costly board ; 
Give us the bowl of samp and milk, 

By homespun beauty poured ! 

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth 

Sends up its smoky curls, 
Who will not thank the kindly earth, 

And bless our farmer girls ! 



20 SONGS OF LABOR. 

Then shame on all the proud and vain, 
Whose folly laughs to scorn 

The blessing of our hardy grain, 
Our wealth of golden corn ! 

Let earth withhold her goodly root, 
Let mildew blight the rye, 

Give to the worm the orchard's fruit, 
The wheat-field to the fly : 

But let the good old crop adorn 
The hills our fathers trod ; 

Still let us, for his golden corn, 
Send up our thanks to God ! 



THE LUMBERMEN. 

Wildly round our woodland quarters, 

Sad-voiced Autumn grieves ; 
Thickly down these swelling waters 

Float his fallen leaves. 
Through the tall and naked timber, 

Column-like and old, 
Gleam the sunsets of November, 

From their skies of gold. 

O'er us, to the southland heading, 

Screams the gray wild-goose ; 
On the night-frost sounds the treading 

Of the brindled moose. 
Noiseless creeping, while we're sleeping, 

Frost his task-work plies ; 
Soon, his icy bridges heaping, 

Shall our log-piles rise. 

When, with sounds of smothered thunder, 
On some night of rain, 



THE LUMBERMEN. 21 

Lake and river break asunder 

Winter's weakened chain, 
Down the wild March flood shall bear them 

To the saw-mill's wheel, 
Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them 

With his teeth of steel. 

Be it starlight, be it moonlight, 

In these vales below, 
When the earliest beams of sunlight 

Streak the mountain's snow, 
Crisps the hoar-frost, keen and early, 

To our hurrying feet, 
And the forest echoes clearly 

All our blows repeat. 

Where the crystal Ambijejis 

Stretches broad and clear, 
And Millnoket's pine-black ridges 

Hide the browsing deer : 
Where, through lakes and wide morasses, 

Or through rocky walls, 
Swift and strong, Penobscot passes 

White with foamy falls ; 

Where, through clouds, are glimpses given 

Of Katahdin's sides, — 
Rock and forest piled to heaven, 

Torn and ploughed by slides ! 
Far below, the Indian trapping, 

In the sunshine warm ; 
Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping 

Half the peak in storm ! 

Where are mossy carpets better 

Than the Persian weaves, 
And than Eastern perfumes sweeter 

Seem the fading leaves ; 



SONGS OF LABOR. 

And a music -wild and solemn, 

From the pine-tree's height, 
Rolls its vast and sea-like volume 

On the wind of night ; 

Make we here our camp of winter ; 

And, through sleet and snow, 
Pitchy knot and beechen splinter 

On our hearth shall glow. 
Here, with mirth to lighten duty, 

We shall lack alone 
Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty, 

Childhood's lisping tone. 

But their hearth is brighter burning 

For our toil to-day ; 
And the welcome of returning 

Shall our loss repay, 
When, like seamen from the waters, 

From the woods we come, 
Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters. 

Angels of our home ! 

Not for us the measured ringing 

From the village spire, 
Not for us the Sabbath singing 

Of the sweet-voiced choir : 
Ours the old, majestic temple, 

Where God's brightness shines 
Down the dome so grand and ample, 

Propped by lofty pines ! 

Through each branch-enwoven skylight, 

Speaks He in the breeze, 
As of old beneath the twilight 

Of lost Eden's trees ! 
For his ear, the inward feeling 

Needs no outward tongue ; 



THE LUMBERMEN. 23 

He can see the spirit kneeling 
While the axe is swung. 

Heeding truth alone, and turning 

From the false and dim, 
Lamp of toil or altar burning 

Are alike to Him. 
Strike, then, comrades ! — Trade is waiting 

On our rugged toil ; 
Far ships waiting for the freighting 

Of our woodland spoil ! 

Ships, whose traffic links these highlands, 

Bleak and cold, of ours, 
With the citron-planted islands 

Of a clime of flowers ; 
To our frosts the tribute bringing 

Of eternal heats ; 
In our lap of winter flinging 

Tropic fruits and sweets. 

Cheerly, on the axe of labor, 

Let the sunbeams dance, 
Better than the flash of sabre 

Or the gleam of lance ! 
Strike ! — With every blow is given 

Freer sun and sky, 
And the long-hid earth to heaven 

Looks, with wondering eye ! 

Loud behind us grow the murmurs 

Of the age to come ; 
Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers, 

Bearing harvest home ! 
Here her virgin lap with treasures 

Shall the green earth fill ; 
Waving wheat and golden maize-ears 

Crown each beechen hill. 



24 SONGS OF LABOR. 

Keep who will the city's alleys, 

Take the smooth-shorn plain, — 
Give to us the cedar valleys, 

Rocks and hills of Maine ! 
In our North-land, wild and woody, 

Let us still have part ; 
Rugged nurse and mother sturdy, 

Hold us to thy heart I 

O ! our free hearts beat the warmer 

For thy breath of snow ; 
And our tread is all the firmer 

For thy rocks below. 
Freedom, hand in hand with labor, 

Walketh strong and brave ; 
On the forehead of his neighbor 

No man writeth Slave ! 

Lo, the day breaks ! old Katahdin's 

Pine-trees show its fires, 
While from these dim forest gardens 

Rise their blackened spires. 
Up, my comrades ! up and doing I 

Manhood's rugged play 
Still renewing, bravtly hewing 

Through the world our way ! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward 

far away, 
O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican 

array. 
Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or 

come they near ? 
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the 

storm we hear. 

" Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of 

battle rolls ; 
Blood is flowing, men are dying ; God have mercy 

on their souls ! " 
Who is losing ? who is winning ? — " Over hill and 

over plain, 
I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the 

mountain ram." 

Holy Mother ! keep our brothers ! Look Ximena, 
look once more : 

" Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as 
before, 

Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foe- 
man, foot and^iorse, 

Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down 
its mountain course." 



28 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Look forth once more, Ximena ! " Ah ! the smoke 
has rolled away ; 

And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the 
ranks of gray. 

Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! there the troop 
of Minon wheels ; 

There the Northern horses thunder, with the can- 
non at their heels. 

" Jesu, pity ! how it thickens ! now retreat and now 

advance ! 
Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla'a 

charging lance ! 
Down they go, the brave young riders ; horse and 

foot together fall ; 
Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them 

ploughs the Northern ball." 

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and 

frightful on : 
Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, 

and who has won ? 
" Alas ! alas ! I know not ; friend and foe together 

fall, 
O'er the dying rush the living : pray, my sisters, 

for them all ! " 

" Lo ! the wind the smoke is lifting : Blessed Moth- 
er, save my brain ! 

I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from 
heaps of slain. 

Now they stagger, blind and bleeding ; now they 
fall, and strive to rise ; 

Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die 
before our eyes ! " 

" Oh my heart's love ! oh my dear one ! lay thy 

poor head on my knee ; 
Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee ? Canst 

thou hear me ? canst thou see ? 



THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 23 

Oh, my husband, brave and gentle ! oh, my Bernal, 

look once more 
On the blessed cross before thee ! mercy ! mercy ! 

all, is o'er!" 

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena ; lay thy dear one 

down to rest ; 
Lei his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon 

his breast ; 
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral 

masses said ; 
To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy 

aid. 

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, 

a soldier lay, 
Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding 

slow his life away ; 
But, as tenderly before him, the lorn Ximena knelt, 
She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol 

belt. 

With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned 

away her head ; 
With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon 

her dead ; 
But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his 

struggling breath of pain, 
And she raised the cooling water to his parching 

lips again. 

Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand 
and faintly smiled : 

Was that pitying face his mother's ? did she watch 
beside her child ? 

All his stranger words with meaning her woman's 
heart supplied ; 

With her kiss upon his forehead, " Mother ! " mur- 
mured he, and died ! 



30 MISCELLANEOUS. 

" A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee 
forth, 

From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lone- 
ly, in the North ! " 

Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him 
with her dead, 

And turned to soothe the living, and bind the 
wounds which bled. 

Look forth once more, Ximena ! " Like a cloud 

before the wind 
Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood 

and death behind ; 
Ah ! they plead in vain for mercy ; in the dust the 

wounded strive ; 
Hide your faces, holy angels ! oh, thou Christ of 

God, forgive ! " 

Sink, oh Night, among thy mountains ! let the cool, 

gray shadows fall ; 
Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain 

over all ! 
Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart 

the battle rolled, 
In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips 

grew cold. 

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task 

pursued, 
Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and 

faint and lacking food ; 
Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender 

care they hung, 
And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange 

and Northern tongue. 

Not wholly lost, oh Father ! is this evil world, of 

ours ; 
Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh 

the Eden flowers ; 



BARCLAY OP TJRY. 31 

From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send 

their prayer, 
And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in 

our air ! 



FORGIVENESS. 

My heart was heavy, for its trust had been 

Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong ; 

So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men, 
One summer Sabbath day I strolled among 

The green mounds of the village burial-place ; 
Where, pondering how all human love and hate 
Find one sad level ; and how, soon or late, 

Wronged and wrong-doer, each with meekened 
face, 
And cold hands folded over a still heart, 

Pass the green threshold of our common grave, 
Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart, 

Awed for myself, and pitying my race, 

Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave, 

Swept all my pride away, and trembling I for* 
gave ! 



BARCLAY OF URY.2 

Up the streets of Aberdeen, 
By the kirk and college green, 

Rode the Laird of Ury ; ^ 
Close behind him, close beside. 
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, 

Pressed the mob in fury. 

Flouted him the drunken churl, 
Jeered at him the serving girl, 



82 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Prompt to please her master ; 
And the begging carlin, late 
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, 

Cursed him as he passed her. 

Yet, with calm and stately mien, 
Up the streets of Aberdeen 

Came he slowly riding ; 
And, to all he saw and heard 
Answering not with bitter word, 

Turning not for chiding. 

Came a troop with broadswords swinging, 
Bits and bridles sharply ringing, 

Loose and free and froward ; 
Quoth the foremost, " Ride him down ! 
Push him ! prick him ! through the town 

Drive the Quaker coward ! " 

But from out the thickening crowd 
Cried a sudden voice and loud : 

" Barclay ! Ho ! a Barclay ! " 
And the old man at his side 
Saw a comrade, battle tried, 

Scarred and sunburned darkly ; 

Who with ready weapon bare, 
Fronting to the troopers there, 

Cried aloud : " God save us ! 
Call ye coward him who stood 
Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood, 

With the brave Gustavus ? " 

" Nay, I do not need thy sword, 
Comrade mine," said Ury's lord ; 

" Put it up I pray thee : 
Passive to his holy will, 
Trust I in my Master still, 

Even though he slay me." 



BARCLAY OF URT. 33 

" Pledges of thy love and faith, 
Proved on many a field of death, 

Not by me are needed." 
Marvelled much that henchman bold, 
That his laird, so stout of old, 

Now so meekly pleaded. 

" Woe's the day," he sadly said, 
With a slowly-shaking head, 

And a look of pity ; 
" Ury's honest lord reviled, 
Mock of knave and sport of child, 

In his own good city ! 

" Speak the word, and, master mine, 
As we charged on Tilly's line, 

And his Walloon lancers, 
Smiting through their midst we'll teach 
Civil look and decent speech 

To these boyish prancers ! " 

" Marvel not, mine ancient friend, 
Like beginning, like the end : " 

Quoth the Laird of Ury, 
" Is the sinful servant more 
Than his gracious Lord who bore 

Bonds and stripes in Jewry ? 

" Give me joy that in his name 
I can bear, with patient frame, 
All these vain ones offer ; 
While for them He suffereth long, 
Shall I answer wrong with wrong, 
Scoffing with the scoffer ? 

" Happier I, with loss of all, 
Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, 

With few friends to greet me, 
Than when reeve and squire were seen, 



34 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Riding out from Aberdeen, 

With bared heads to meet me. 

" When each good wife, o'er and o'er, 
Blessed me as I passed her door ; 

And the snooded daughter, 
Through her casement glancing down, 
Smiled on him who bore renown 

From red fields of slaughter. 

" Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, 
Hard the old friend's falling off, 

Hard to learn forgiving : 
But the Lord his own rewards, 
And his love with theirs accords, 

Warm and fresh and living. 

" Through this dark and stormy night 
Faith beholds a feeble light 

Up the blackness streaking; 
Knowing God's own time is best, 
In a patient hope I rest 

For the full day-breaking ! " 

So the Laird of Ury said, 
Turning slow his horse's head 

Towards the Tolbooth prison, 
Where, through iron grates, he heard 
Poor disciples of the Word 

Preach of Christ arisen ! 

Not in vain, Confessor old, 
Unto us the tale is told 

Of thy day of trial ; 
Every age on him, who strays 
From its broad and beaten ways, 

Pours its seven-fold vial. 

Happy he whose inward ear 
Angel comfortings can hear, 



WHAT THE VOICE SAID. 35 

O'er the rabble's laughter ; 
And, while Hatred's fagots burn, 
Glimpses through the smoke discern 

Of the good hereafter. 

Knowing this, that never yet 
Share of Truth was vainly set 

In the world's wide fallow ; 
After hands shall sow the seed, 
After hands from hill and mead 

Reap the harvests yellow. 

Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, 
Must the moral pioneer 

From the Future borrow ; 
Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, 
And, on midnight's sky of rain, 

Paint the golden morrow ! 



WHAT THE VOICE SAID. 

Maddened by Earth's wrong and evil, 
" Lord ! " I cried in sudden ire, 

" From thy right hand, clothed with thunder, 
Shake the bolted fire ! 

" Love is lost, and Faith is dying ; 

With the brute the man is sold ; 
And the dropping blood of labor 

Hardens into gold. 

" Here the dying wail of Famine, 
There the battle's groan of pain ; 

And, in silence, smooth-faced Mammon 
Reaping men like grain. 



36 MISCELLANEOUS. 

" ' Where is God, that we should fear Him ? 

Thus the earth-born Titans say ; 
' God ! if thou art living, hear us ! ' 

Thus the weak ones pray. 

" Thou, the patient Heaven upbraiding," 
Spake a solemn Voice within ; 

" Weary of our Lord's forbearance, 
Art thou free from sin ? 

" Fearless brow to Him uplifting, 
Canst thou for his thunders call, 

Knowing that to guilt's attraction 
Evermore they fall ? 

" Know'st thou not all germs of evil 
In thy heart await their time ? 

Not thyself, but God's restraining, 
Stays their growth of crime. 

" Could'st thou boast, oh child of weakness ! 

O'er the sons of wrong and strife, 
Were their strong temptations planted 

In thy path of life ? 

" Thou hast seen two streamlets gushing 
From one fountain, clear and free, 

But by widely varying channels 
Searching for the sea. 

" Glideth one through greenest valleys, 
Kissing them with lips still sweet ; 

One, mad roaring down the mountains. 
Stagnates at their feet. 

" Is it choice whereby the Parsee 
Kneels before his mother's fire ? 

In his black tent did the Tartar 
Choose his wandering sire ? 



WHAT THE VOICE SAID. 37 

" He alone, whose hand is bounding 

Human power and human will, 
Looking through each soul's surrounding. 

Knows its good or ill. 

" For thyself, while wrong and sorrow 
Make to thee their strong appeal, 

Coward wert thou not to utter 
What the heart must feel. 

" Earnest words must needs be spoken 
When the warm heart bleeds or burns 

With its scorn of wrong, or pity 
For the wronged, by turns. 

" But, by all thy nature's weakness, 
Hidden faults and follies known, 

Be thou, in rebuking evil, 
Conscious of thine own. 

" Not the less shall stern-eyed Duty 

To thy lips her trumpet set, 
But with harsher blasts shall mingle 

Wailings of regret." 

Cease not, Yoice of holy speaking, 

Teacher sent of God, be near, 
Whispering through the day's cool silence, 

Let my spirit hear ! 

So, when thoughts of evil doers 

Waken scorn or hatred move, 
Shall a mournful fellow-feeling 

Temper all with love. 



38 MISCELLANEOUS. 



TO DELAWARE. 

Written during the discussion in the Legislature of that State, 
in the winter of 1846-7, of a bill for the abolition of Slavery. 

Thrice welcome to thy sisters of the East, 

To the strong tillers of a rugged home, 
With spray-wet locks to Northern winds released, 

And hardy feet o'er-swept by ocean's foam ; 
And to the young nymphs of the golden West, 

Whose harvest mantles, fringed with prairie 
bloom, 
Trail in the sunset, — oh, redeemed and blest, 

To the warm welcome of thy sisters come ! 
Broad Pennsylvania, down her sail-white bay 

Shall give thee joy, and Jersey from her plains, 
And the great lakes, where echo free alway 

Moaned never shoreward with the clank of 
chains, 
Shall weave new sun-bows in their tossing spray, 
And all their waves keep grateful holiday. 
And, smiling on thee through her mountain rains, 

Vermont shall bless thee ; and the Granite peaks, 
And vast Katahdin o'er his woods, shall wear 
Their snow-crowns brighter in the cold keen air; 

And Massachusetts, with her rugged cheeks 
O'errun with grateful tears, shall turn to thee, 

When, at thy bidding, the electric wire 

Shall tremble northward with its words of fire : 
Glory and praise to God ! another State is free ! 



WORSHIP. 39 



WORSHIP. 



[" Puee religion, and undented, before God and the Father, is 
this : To visit the widows and the fatherless in their affliction, 
and to keep himself unspotted from the world."— James i. 27.] 

The Pagan's myths through marble lips are spoken, 
And ghosts of old Beliefs still flit and moan 

Round fane and altar overthrown and broken, 
O'er tree-grown barrow and gray ring of stone. 

Blind Faith had martyrs in those old high places. 
The Syrian hill grove and the Druid's wood, 

With mothers' offering, to the Fiend's embraces, 
Bone of their bone, and blood of their own blood. 

Red altars, kindling through that night of error, 
Smoked with warm blood beneath the cruel eye 

Of lawless Power and sanguinary Terror, 
Throned on the circle of a pitiless sky ; 

Beneath whose baleful shadow, overcasting 
All heaven above, and blighting earth below, 

The scourge grew red, the lip grew pale with fast- 
ing, 
And man's oblation was his fear and woe ! 

Then through great temples swelled the dismal 
moaning 

Of dirge-like music and sepulchral prayer ; 
Pale wizard priests, o'er occult symbols droning, 

Swung their white censers in the burdened air : 

As if the pomp of rituals, and the savor 
Of gums and spices could the Unseen One 
please ; 

As if his ear could bend, with childish favor, 
To the poor flattery of the organ keys 1 



40 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Feet red from war fields trod the church aisles holy, 
With trembling reverence; and the oppressor 
there, 
Kneeling before his priest, abased and lowly, 
Crushed human hearts beneath his knee of 
prayer. 

Not such the service the benignant Father 
Requireth at his earthly children's hands : 

Not the poor offering of vain rites, but rather 
The simple duty man from man demands. 

For Earth he asks it : the full joy of Heaven 
Knoweth no change of waning or increase ; 

The great heart of the Infinite beats even, 
Untroubled flows the river of his peace. 

He asks no taper lights, on high surrounding 
The priestly altar and the saintly grave, 

No dolorous chant nor organ music sounding, 
Nor incense clouding up the twilight nave. 

For he whom Jesus loved hath truly spoken : 
The holier worship which he deigns to bless 

Restores the lost, and binds the spirit broken, 
And feeds the widow and the fatherless ! 

Types of our human weakness and our sorrow • 
Who lives unhaunted by his loved ones dead ? 

Who, with vain longing, seeketh not to borrow 
From stranger eyes the home lights which have 
fled? 

Oh, brother man ! fold to thy heart thy brother ; 

Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there ; 
To worship rightly is to love each other, 

Each smile a hymn, each kindly deed a prayer 

Follow with reverent steps the great example 
Of Him whose holy work was " doing good ; " 



THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. 41 

So shall the wide earth seem our Father's temple, 
Each loving life a psalm of gratitude. 

Then shall all shackles fall ; the stormy clangor 
Of wild war music o'er the earth shall cease ; 

Love shall tread out the baleful fire of anger, 
And in its ashes plant the tree of peace ! 



THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. 

The Brownie sits in the Scotchman's room, 
And eats his meat and drinks his ale, 

And beats the maid with her unused broom, 
And the lazy lout with his idle flail, 

But he sweeps the floor and threshes the corn, 

And hies him away ere the break of dawn. 

The shade of Denmark fled from the sun, 

And the Cocklane ghost from the barnloft cheer, 

The fiend of Faust was a faithful one, 
Agrippa's demon wrought in fear, 

And the devil of Martin Luther sat 

By the stout monk's side in social chat. 

The Old Man of the Sea, on the neck of him 

Who seven times crossed the deep, 
Twined closely each lean and withered limb, 

Like the nightmare in one's sleep. 
But he drank of the wine, and Sinbad cast 
The evil weight from his back at last. 

But the demon that cometh day by day 
To my quiet room and fireside nook, 

Where the casement light falls dim and gray 
On faded painting and ancient book, 

Is a sorrier one than any whose names 

Are chronicled well by good king James. 



42 MISCELLANEOUS. 

No bearer of burdens like Caliban, 

No runner of errands like Ariel, 
He comes in the shape of a fat old man, 

Without rap of knuckle or pull of bell ; 
And whence he comes, or whither he goes, 
I know as I do of the wind which blows. 

A stout old man with a greasy hat 

Slouched heavily down to his dark, red nojv, 
And two gray eyes enveloped in fat, 

Looking through glasses with iron bows. 
Read ye, and heed ye, and ye who can, 
Guard well your doors from that old man ! 

He comes with a careless " how d'ye do," 
And seats himself in my elbow chair ; 

And my morning paper and pamphlet new 
Fall forthwith under his special care, 

And he wipes his glasses and clears his throat, 

And, button by button, unfolds his coat. 

And then he reads from paper and book, 
In a low and husky asthmatic tone, 

With the stolid sameness of posture and look 
Of one who reads to himself alone ; 

And hour after hour on my senses come 

That husky wheeze and that dolorous hum. 

The price of stocks, the auction sales, 
The poet's song and the lover's glee, 

The horrible murders, the seaboard gales, 
The marriage list, and the jeu d' esprit, 

All reach my ear in the self-same tone, — 

I shudder at each, but the fiend reads on ! 

Oh ! sweet as the lapse of water at noon 
O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree, 

The sigh of the wind in the woods of June, 
Or sound of flutes o'er a moonlight sea, 



THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. 43 

Or the low soft music, perchance which seems 
To float through the slumbering singer's dreams, 

So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone 

Of her in whose features I sometimes look, 

As I sit at eve by her side alone, 

And we read by turns from the self-same book — 

Some tale perhaps of the olden time, 

Some lover's romance or quaint old rhyme. 

Then when the story is one of woe, — 

Some prisoner's plaint through his dungeon-bar, 

Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low 
Her voice sinks down like a moan afar ; 

And I seem to hear that prisoner's wail, 

And his face looks on me worn and pale. 

And when she reads some merrier song, 
Her voice is glad as an April bird's, 

And when the tale is of war and wrong, 
A trumpet's summons is in her words, 

And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear, 

And see the tossing of plume and spear ! — 

Oh, pity me then, when, day by day, 

The stout fiend darkens my parlour door ; 

And reads me perchance the self-same lay 
Which melted in music the night before, 

From lips as the lips of Hylas sweet, 

And moved like twin roses which zephyrs meet ! 

I cross my floor with a nervous tread, 
I whistle and laugh and sing and shout, 

1 flourish my cane above his head, 
And stir up the fire to roast him out ; 

I topple the chairs, and drum on the pane, 

And press my hands on my ears, in vain ! 

I've studied Glanville and James the wise, 
And wizard black-letter tomes which treat 



44 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Of demons of every name and size, 

Which a Christian man is presumed to meet, 
But never a hint and never a line 
Can I find of a reading fiend like mine. 

I've crossed the Psalter with Brady and Tate, 
And laid the Primer above them all, 

I've nailed a horseshoe over the grate, 
And hung a wig to my parlour wall 

Once worn by a learned Judge, they say, 
At Salem court in the witchcraft day ! 

"Conjuro te, scleratissime, 

Abire ad tuum locum ! " — still 
Like a visible nightmare he sits by me — 

The exorcism has lost its skill ; 
And I hear again in my haunted room 
The husky wheeze and the dolorous hum ! 

All ! — commend me to Mary Magdalen 

With her seven-fold plagues — to the wandering 
Jew, 

To the terrors which haunted Orestes when 
The furies his midnight curtains drew, 

But charm him oil", ye Avho charm him can, 
That reading demon, that fat old man ! — 



THE PUMPKIN. 

On ! greenly and fair in the lands of the sun, 
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, 
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, 
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all 

gold, > 
Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew, 
While he waited to know that his warning was true, 



THE PUMPKIN. 45 

And longed for tho storm-cloud, and listened in 

vain 
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. 

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden 
Comes up vviih the fruit of the tangled vine laden; 
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold 
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres 

of gold; 
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, 
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, 
Where crook-necks are coding and yellow fruit 

shines, 
And the sun of September melts down on his vines. 

Ah ! — on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and 

from West, 
From North and from South come the pilgrim and 

guest, 
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round 

his board 
The old broken links of affection restored, 
When the eare-wearicd man seeks his mother once 

more, 
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled 

before, 
What moistens tho lip and what brightens the 

eye V 
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie ? 

Oh 1 — fruit loved of boyhood ! — the old days re- 
calling, 

When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts 

were falling ! 
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, 
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within! 
When we laughed round the eorn-hea,|>, with hearts 

all in tune, 
Our chair a broad pumpkin — our lantern the moon, 



46 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam, 
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her 
team! 

Then thanks for thy present ! — none sweeter of 

better 
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter ! 
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, 
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking than 

thine! 
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to 

express, 
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less 
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, 
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine 

grow, 
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky 
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin Pie ! 



EXTRACT FROM " A NEW ENGLAND 
LEGEND." 

How has New England's romance fled, 

Even as a vision of the morning ! 
Its rites fordone — its guardians dead — 
Its priestesses, bereft of dread, 

Waking the veriest urchin's scorning ! — 
Gone like the Indian wizard's yell 

And fire-dance round the magic rock, 
Forgotten like the Druid's spell 

At moonrise by his holy oak ! 
No more along the shadowy glen, 
Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men ; 
No more the unquiet churchyard dead 
Glimpse upward from their turfy bed, 

Startling the traveller, late and lone ; 



EXTRACT. 47 

As, on some night of starless weather, 
They silently commune together, 

Each sitting on his own head-stone ! 
The roofless house, decayed, deserted, 
Its living tenants all departed, 
No longer rings with midnight revel 
Of witch, or ghost, or goblin evil ; 
No pale, blue flame sends out its flashes 
Through creviced roof and shattered sashes !■— 
The witch-grass round the hazel spring 
May sharply to the night-air sing, 
But there no more shall withered hags 
Refresh at ease their broomstick nags, 
Or taste those hazel-shadowed waters 
As beverage meet for Satan's daughters ; 
No more their mimic tones be heard — 
The mew of cat — the chirp of bird, 
Shrill blending with the hoarser laughter 
Of the fell demon following after ! 

The cautious good-man nails no more' 

A horseshoe on his outer door, 

Lest some unseemly hag should fit 

To his own mouth her bridle-bit — 

The good-wife's churn no more refuses 

Its wonted culinary uses 

Until, with heated needle burned, 

The witch has to her place returned ! 

Our witches are no longer old 

And wrinkled beldames, Satan-sold, 

But young and gay and laughing creatures, 

With the heart's sunshine on their features — 

Their sorcery — the light which dances 

Where the raised lid unveils its glances , 

Or that low breathed and gentle tone, 

The music of Love's twilight hours, 
Soft, dreamlike, as a fairy's moan 

Above her nightly closing flowers, 
Sweeter than that which sighed of yore, 



48 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Along the charmed Ausonian shore ! 
Even she, our own weird heroine, 
Sole Pythoness of ancient Lynn, 

Sleeps calmly where the living laid her ; 
And the wide realm of sorcery, 
Left by its latest mistress free, 

Hath found no gray and skilled invader : 
So perished Albion's " glammarye," 

With him in Melrose Abbey sleeping, 
His charmed torch beside his knee, 
That even the dead himself might see 

The magic scroll within his keeping. 
And now our modern Yankee sees 
Nor omens, spells, nor mysteries ; 
And naught above, below, around, 
Of life or death, of sight or sound, 

Whate'er its nature, form, or look, 
Excites his terror or surprise — 
All seeming to his knowing eyes 
Familiar as his " catechize," 

Or " Webster's Spelling Book." 



HAMPTON BEACH. 

The sunlight glitters keen and bright, 

Where, miles away, 
Lies stretching to my dazzled sight 
A luminous belt, a misty light, 
Beyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of sandy 
gray. 

The tremulous shadow of the Sea ! 

Against its ground 
Of silvery light, rock, hill, and tree, 
Still as a picture, clear and free, 
With varying outline mark the coast for miles 
around. 



HAMPTON BEACH. 49 

On — on — we tread with loose-flung rein 

Our seaward way, 
Through dark-green fields and blossoming grain, 
Where the wild brier-rose skirts the lane, 
And bends above our heads the flowering locust 
spray. 

Ha ! like a kind hand on my brow 

Comes this fresh breeze, 
Cooling its dull and feverish glow, 
While through my being seems to flow 
The breath of a new life — the healing of the seas ! 

Now rest we, where this grassy mound 

His feet hath set 
In the great waters, which have bound 
His granite ancles greenly round 
With long and tangled moss, and weeds with cool 
spray wet. 

Good-bye to Pain and Care ! I take 

Mine ease to-day ; 
Here where these sunny waters break, 
And ripples this keen breeze, I shake 
All burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts away. 

I draw a freer breath — I seem 

Like all I see — 
Waves in the sun — the white-winged gleam 
Of sea-birds in the slanting beam — 
And far-off sails which flit before the South wind 
free. 

So when Time's veil shall fall asunder, 

The soul may know 
No fearful change, nor sudden wonder, 
Nor sink the weight of mystery under, 
But with the upward rise, and with the vastness 
grow. 

TOL. II. 4 



50 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And all we shrink from now may seem 

No new revealing ; 
Familiar as our childhood's stream, 
Or pleasant memory of a dream 
The loved and cherished Past upon the new life 
stealing. 

Serene and mild the untried light 

May have its dawning ; 
And, as in Summer's northern night 
The evening and the dawn unite, 
The sunset hues of Time blend with the soul's new 
morning. 

I sit alone : in foam and spray 

Wave after wave 
Breaks on the rocks which, stern and gray, 
Shoulder the broken tide away, 
Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy cleft 
and cave. 

What heed I of the dusty land 

And noisy town ? 
I see the mighty deep expand 
From its white line of glimmering sand 
To where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shuts 
down ! 

In listless quietude of mind, 

I yield to all 
The change of cloud and wave and wind, 
And passive on the flood reclined, 
I wander with the waves, and with them rise and fall 

But look, thou dreamer ! — wave and shore 

In shadow lie ; 
The night-wind warns me back once more 
To where my native hill-tops o'er 
Bends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset sky ! 



LINES. 51 

So then, beach, bluff, and wave, farewell ! 

I bear with me 
No token stone nor glittering shell, 
But long and oft shall Memory tell 
Of this brief thoughtful hour of musing by the Sea 



ImTTEN ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF SILAS WRIGHT, OF NEW YORK. 

As they who, tossing midst the storm at night, 

While turning shoreward, where a beacon shone, 

Meet the walled blackness of the heaven alone, 
So, on the turbulent waves of party tossed, 
In gloom and tempest, men have seen thy light 

Quenched in the darkness. At thy hour of noon, 
While life was pleasant to thy undimmed sight, 
And, day by day, within thy spirit grew 
A holier hope than young Ambition knew, 
As through thy rural quiet, not in vain, 
Pierced the sharp thrill of Freedom's cry of pain, 

Man of the millions, thou art lost too soon ! 
Portents at which the bravest stand aghast — 
The birth-throes of a Future, strange and vast, 

Alarm the land ; yet thou, so wise and strong, 
Suddenly summoned to the burial bed, 

Lapped in its slumbers deep and ever long, 
Hear'st not the tumult surging overhead. 
Who now shall rally Freedom's scattering host ? 
Who wear the mantle of the leader lost ? 
Who stay the march of slavery ? He, whose voice 

Hath called thee from thy task-field, shall not 
lack 

Yet bolder champions, to beat bravely back 
The wrong which, through his poor ones, reaches 
Him: 



52 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Yet firmer hands shall Freedom's torchlights trim, 
And wave them high across the abysmal black, 
Till bound, dumb millions there shall see them and 
rejoice. 

10th mo., 1847. 



LINES, 

ACCOMPANYING MANUSCRIPTS PRESENTED TO A FRIENI* 

'Tis said that in the Holy Land 

The angels of the place have blessed 

The pilgrim's bed of desert sand, 
Like Jacob's stone of rest. 

That down the hush of Syrian skies 

Some sweet-voiced saint at twilight sings 

The song whose holy symphonies 
Are beat by unseen wings ; 

Ull starting from his sandy bed, 

The wayworn wanderer looks to see 

The halo of an angel's head 

Shine through the tamarisk-tree. 

So through the shadows of my way 
Thy smile hath fallen soft and clear, 

So at the weary close of day 
Hath seemed thy voice of cheer. 

That pilgrim pressing to his goal 
May pause not for the vision's sake, 

Yet all fair things within his soul 
The thought of it shall wake ; 



LINES. 53 



The graceful palm-tree by the well, 

Seen on the far horizon's rim ; 
The dark eyes of the fleet gazelle, 

Bent timidly on him ; 

Each pictured saint, whose golden hair 

Streams sunlike through the convent's gloom ; 

Pale shrines of martyrs young and fair, 
And loving Mary's tomb ; 

And thus each tint or shade which falls 
From sunset cloud or waving tree, 

Along my pilgrim path recalls 
The pleasant thought of thee. 

Of one, in sun and shade the same, 
In weal and woe my steady friend, 

Whatever by that holy name 
The angels comprehend. 

Not blind to faults and follies, thou 
Hast never failed the good to see, 

Nor judged by one unseemly bough 
The upward-struggling tree. 

These light leaves at thy feet I lay — 

Poor common thoughts on common things, 

Which time is shaking, day by day, 
Like feathers from his wings — 

Chance shootings from a frail life-tree, 
To nurturing care but little known, 

Their good was partly learned of thee, 
Their folly is my own. 

That tree still clasps the kindly mould, 
Its leaves still drink the twilight dew, 

And weaving its pale green with gold, 
Still shines the sunlight through. 



54 MISCELLANEOUS. 

There still the morning zephyrs play, 
And there at times the spring bird sings. 

And mossy trunk and fading spray 
Are flowered with glossy wings. 

Yet, even in genial sun and rain, 

Root, branch, and leaflet fail and fade ; 

The wanderer on its lonely plain 
Ere long shall miss its shade. 

Oh, friend beloved, whose curious skill 
Keeps bright the last year's leaves and flowers, 

With warm, glad summer thoughts to fill 
The cold, dark, winter hours ! 

Pressed on thy heart, the leaves I bring 

May well defy the wintry cold, 
Until, in Heaven's eternal spring, 

Life's fairer ones unfold. 



THE REWARD. 

Who, looking backward from his manhood's" prime, 
Sees not the spectre of his misspent time ? 

And, through the shade 
Of funeral cypress planted thick behind, 
Hears no reproachful whisper on the wind 

From his loved dead? 

Who bears no trace of passion's evil force V 
Who shuns thy sting, oh terrible Remorse ? — 

Who does not cast 
On the thronged pages of his memory's book, 
At times, a sad and half reluctant look, 

Regretful of the Past ? 



RAPHAEL. 55 

Alas ! — the evil which we fain would shun 
We do, and leave the wished-for good undone : 

Our strength to-day 
Is but to-morrow's weakness, prone to fall ; 
Poor, blind, unprofitable servants all 

Are we alway. 

Yet, who, thus looking backward o'er his years, 
Feels not his eyelids wet with grateful tears, 

If he hath been 
Permitted, weak and sinful as he was, 
To cheer and aid, in some ennobling cause, 

His fellow-men ? 

If he hath hidden the outcast, or let in 
A ray of sunshine to the cell of sin, — 

If he hath lent 
Strength to the weak, and, in an hour of need, 
Over the suffering, mindless of his creed 

Or home, hath bent. 

He has not lived in vain, and while he gives 
The praise to Him, in whom he moves and lives, 

With thankful heart ; 
He gazes backward, and with hope before, 
Knowing that from his works he never more 

Can henceforth part. 



RAPHAEL. 

I shall not soon forget that sight : 
The glow of Autumn's westering day, 

A hazy warmth, a dreamy light, 
On Raphael's picture lay. 



56 MISCELLANEOUS. 

It was a simple print I saw, 
The fair face of a musing boy ; 

Yet while I gazed a sense of awe 
Seemed blending with my joy. 

A simple print : — the graceful flow 
Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair, 

And fresh young lip and cheek, and brow 
Unmarked and clear, were there. 

Yet through its sweet and calm repose 

I saw the inward spirit shine ; 
It was as if before me rose 

The white veil of a shrine. 

As if, as Gothland's sage has told, 
The hidden life, the man within, 

Dissevered from its frame and mould, 
By mortal eye were seen. 

"Was it the lifting of that eye, 

The waving of that pictured hand ? 

Loose as a cloud-wreath on the sky, 
I saw the walls expand. 

The narrow room had vanished, — space 
Broad, luminous, remained alone, 

Through which all hues and shapes of grace 
And beauty looked or shone. 

Around the mighty master came 

The marvels which his pencil wrought, 

Those miracles of power whose fame 
Is wide as human thought. 

There drooped thy more than mortal face, 
Oh Mother, beautiful and mild ! 

Enfolding in one dear embrace 
Thy Saviour and thy Child ! 



RAPHAEL. 57 

The rapt brow of the Desert John ; 

The awful glory of that day, 
When all the Father's brightness shone 

Through manhood's veil of clay. 

And, midst gray prophet forms, and wild 

Dark visions of the days of old, 
How sweetly ^soman's beauty smiled 

Through locks of brown and gold ! 

There Fornarina's fair young face 
Once more upon her lover shone, 

Whose model of an angel's grace 
He borrowed from her own. 

Slow passed that vision from my view, 
But not the lesson which it taught ; 

The soft, calm shadows which it threw 
Still rested on my thought : 

The truth, that painter, bard, and sage, 
Even in Earth's cold and changeful clime, 

Plant for their deathless heritage 
The fruits and flowers of time. 

We shape ourselves the joy or fear 
Of which the coming life is made, 

And fill our Future's atmosphere 
With sunshine or with shade. 

The tissue of the Life to be 

We weave with colors all our own, 

And in the field of Destiny 
We reap as we have sown. 

Still shall the soul around it call 

The shadows which it gathered here, 

And painted on the eternal wall 
The Past shall reappear. 



58 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Think ye the notes of holy song 
On Milton's tuneful ear have died ? 

Think ye that Raphael's angel throng 
Has vanished from his side ? 

Oh no ! — We live oar life again : 
Or warmly touched or coldly dim 

The pictures of the Past remain, — 
Man's works shall follow him ! 



LUCY HOOPERS 

They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead — 

That all of thee we loved and cherished, 
Has with thy summer roses perished : 

And left, as its young beauty fled, 

An ashen memory in its stead — 
The twilight of a parted day 

Whose fading light is cold and vain : 
The heart's faint echo of a strain 

Of low, sweet music passed away. 
That true and loving heart — that gift 

Of a mind, earnest, clear, profound, 
Bestowing, with a glad unthrift, 

Its sunny light on all around, 
Affinities which only could 
Cleave to the pure, the true, and good ; 

And sympathies which found no rest, 

Save with the loveliest and best. 
Of them — of thee remains there nought 

But sorrow in the mourner's breast ? — 
A shadow in the land of thought ? 
No ! — Even my weak and trembling faith 

Can lift for thee the veil which doubt 

And human fear have drawn about 
The all-awaiting scene of death. 



LUCY HOOPER. 59 

Even as thou wast I see thee still; 
And, save the absence of all ill, 
And pain and weariness, which here 
Summoned the sigh or wrung the tear, 
The same as when, two summers back, 
Beside our childhood's Merrimack, 
I saw thy dark eye wander o'er 
Stream, sunny upland, rocky shore, 
And heard thy low, soft voice alone 
'Midst lapse of waters, and the tone 
Of pine leaves by the west-wind blown, 
There's not a charm of soul or brow — 

Of all we knew and loved in thee — 
But lives in holier beauty now, 

Baptized in immortality ! 
Not mine the sad and freezing dream 

Of souls that, with their earthly mould, 

Cast off the loves and joys of old — 
Unbodied — like a pale moonbeam, 

As pure, as passionless, and cold ; 
Nor mine the hope of Indra's son, 

Of slumbering in oblivion's rest, 
Life's myriads blending into one — 

In blank annihilation blest ; 
Dust-atoms of the infinite — 
Sparks scattered from the central light, 
And winning back through mortal pain 
Their old unconsciousness again. 
No ! — I have friends in Spirit Land — 
Not shadows in a shadowy band, 

Not others, but themselves are they. 
And still I think of them the same 
As when the Master's summons came ; 
Their change — the holy morn-light breaking 
Upon the dream-worn sleeper, waking — 

A change from twilight into day. 

They've laid thee midst the household graves, 
Where father, brother, sister lie ; 



60 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Below thee sweep the dark blue waves, 

Above thee bends the summer sky. 
Thy own loved church in sadness read 
Her solemn ritual o'er thy head, 
And blessed and hallowed with her prayer 
The turf laid lightly o'er thee there. 
That church, whose rites and liturgy, 
Sublime and old, were truth to thee, 
Undoubted to thy bosom taken, 
As symbols of a faith unshaken. 
Even I, of simpler views, could feel 
The beauty of thy trust and zeal ; 
And, owning not thy creed, could see 
How deep a truth it seemed to thee, 
And how thy fervent heart had thrown 
O'er all, a coloring of its own, 
And kindled up, intense and warm, 
A life in every rite and form, 
As, when on Chebar's banks of old, 
The Hebrew's gorgeous vision rolled, 
A spirit filled the vast machine — 
A life " within the wheels " was seen. 

Farewell ! A little time, and we 

Who knew thee well, and loved thee here, 
One after one shall follow thee 

As pilgrims through the gate of fear, 
Which opens on eternity. 
Yet shall we cherish not the less 

All that is left our hearts meanwhile ; 
The memory of thy loveliness 

Shall round our weary pathway smile, 
Like moonlight when the sun has set — 
A sweet and tender radiance yet. 
Thoughts of thy clear-eyed sense of duty, 

Thy generous scorn of all things wrong — 
The truth, the strength, the graceful beauty 

Which blended in thy song. 
All lovely things by thee beloved, 



CHANNING. 61 

Shall whisper to our hearts of thee ; 
These green hills, where thy childhood roved — 

Yon river winding to the sea — 
The sunset light of autumn eves 

Reflecting on the deep, still floods, 
Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves 

Of rainbow-tinted woods, — 
These, in our view, shall henceforth take 
A tenderer meaning for thy sake ; 
And ail thou lovedst of earth and sky, 
Seem sacred to thy memory. 



CHANNING.* 



Not vainly did old poets tell, 

Nor vainly did old genius paint 
God's great and crowning miracle — 

The hero and the saint ! 

For even in a faithless day 

Can we our sainted ones discern ; 

And feel, while with them on the way, 
Our hearts within us burn. 

And thus the common tongue and pen 

Which, world-wide, echo Channing's fame, 

As one of Heaven's anointed men, 
Have sanctified his name. 

In vain shall Rome her portals bar, 
And shut from him her saintly prize, 

WTiom, in the world's great calendar, 
All men shall canonize. 



62 MISCELLANEOUS. 

By Narragansett's sunny bay, 

Beneath his green embowering wood, 

To me it seems but yesterday 
Since at his side I stood. 

The slopes lay green with summer rains, 
The western wind blew fresh and free, 

And glimmered down the orchard lanes 
The white surf of the sea. 

"With us was one, who, calm and true, 
Life's highest purpose understood, 

And like his blessed Master knew 
The joy of doing good. 

Unlearned, unknown to lettered fame, 
Yet on the lips of England's poor 

And toiling millions dwelt his name, 
With blessings evermore. 

Unknown to power or place, yet where 
The sun looks o'er the Carib sea, 

It blended with the freeman's prayer 
And song of jubilee. 

He told of England's sin and wrong — 
The ills her suffering children know — ■ 

The squalor of the city's throng — 
The green field's want and woe. 

O'er Channing's face the tenderness 
Of sympathetic sorrow stole 

Like a still shadow, passionless, 
The sorrow of the soul. 

But, when the generous Briton told 
How hearts were answering to his own, 

And Freedom's rising murmur rolled 
Up to the dull-eared throne, 



CHAINING. 63 

I saw, methought, a glad surprise 

Thrill through that frail and pain-worn frame, 
And kindling in those deep, calm eyes 

A still and earnest flame. 

His few, brief words were such as move 
The human heart — the Faith-sown seeds 

Which ripen in the soil of love 
To high heroic deeds. 

No bars of sect or clime were felt — 

The Babel strife of tongues had ceased, — 

And at one common altar knelt 
The Quaker and the priest. 

And not in vain : with strength renewed, 
And zeal refreshed, and hope less dim, 

For that brief meeting, each pursued 
The path allotted mm. 

How echoes yet each Western hill 

And vale with Channing's dying word ! 

How are the hearts of freemen still 
By that great warning stirred ! 

The stranger treads his native soil, 
And pleads with zeal unfelt before 

The honest right of British toil, 
The claim of England's poor. 

Before him time-wrought barriers fall, 
Old fears subside, old hatreds melt, 

And, stretching o'er the sea's blue wall, 
The Saxon greets the Celt. 

The yeoman on the Scottish lines, 

The Sheffield grinder, worn and grim, 

The delver in the Cornwall mines, 
Look up with hope to him. 



64 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Swart smiters of the glowing steel, 
Dark feeders of the forge's flame, 

Pale watchers at the loom and wheel, 
Repeat his honored name. 

And thus the influence of that hour 
Of converse on Rhode Island's strand, 

Lives in the calm, resistless power 
Which moves our father-land. 

God blesses still the generous thought, 
And still the fitting word He speeds, 

And Truth, at his requiring taught, 
He quickens into deeds. 

Where is the victory of the grave ? 

What dust upon the spirit lies ? 
God keeps the sacred life he gave — 

The prophet never dies ! 



TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. 
STORRS, 

LATE PRESIDENT OF WESTERN RESERVE COLLEGE. 

Thou hast fallen in thine armor, 

Thou martyr of the Lord ! 
With thy last breath crying — " Onward !' 

And thy hand upon the sword. 
The haughty heart derideth, 

And the sinful lip reviles, 
But the blessing of the perishing 

Around thy pillow smiles ! 

When to our cup of trembling 
The added drop is given, 



CHAKLES B. STORKS- 65 

And the long suspended thunder 

Falls terribly from Heaven, — 
When a new and fearful freedom 

Is proffered of the Lord 
To the slow consuming Famine — 

The Pestilence and Sword ! — 

When the refuges of Falsehood 

Shall be swept away in wrath, 
And the temple shall be shaken, 

With its idol, to the earth, — 
Shall not thy words of warning 

Be all remembered then ? 
And thy now unheeded message 

Burn in the hearts of men ? 

Oppression's hand may scatter 

Its nettles on thy tomb, 
And even Christian bosoms 

Deny thy memory room ; 
For lying lips shall torture 

Thy mercy into crime, 
And the slanderer shall flourish 

As the bay-tree for a time. 

But, where the south wind lingers 

On Carolina's pines, 
Or, falls the careless sunbeam 

Down Georgia's golden mines,— 
Where now beneath his burthen 

The toiling slave is driven, — 
Where now a tyrant's mockery 

Is offered unto Heaven, — 

Where Mammon hath its altars 
Wet o'er with human blood, 
And pride and lust debases 

The workmanship of God — 
There shall thy praise be spoken, 
vol,, n. 6 



66 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Redeemed from Falsehood's ban, 
When the fetters shall be broken, 
And the slave shall be a man I 

Joy to thy spirit, brother ! 

A thousand hearts are warm — 
A thousand kindred bosoms 

Are baring to the storm. 
What though red-handed Violence 

With secret Fraud combine, 
The wall of fire is round us— 

Our Present Help was thine 

Lo — the waking up of nations, 

From Slavery's fatal sleep — 
The murmur of a Universe — 

Deep calling unto Deep ! 
Joy to thy spirit, brother ! 

On every wind of heaven 
The onward cheer and summons 

Of Freedom's voice is given ! 

Glory to God forever ! 

Beyond the despot's will 
The soul of Freedom liveth 

Imperishable still. 
The words which thou hast uttered 

Are of that soul a part, 
And the good seed thou hast scattered 

Is springing from the heart. 

In the evil days before us, 

And the trials yet to come — 
In the shadow of the prison, 

Or the cruel martyrdom — 
We will think of thee, O brother ! 

And thy sainted name shall be 
In the blessing of the captive, 

And the anthem of the free. 
1834. 



LINES. 67 



LINES, 

ON THE DEATH OF S. O. TORREY. 

Gone before us, O our brother, 

To the spirit-land ! 
Vainly look we for another 

In thy place to stand. 
Who shall offer youth and beauty 

On the wasting shrine 
Of a stern and lofty duty, 

With a faith like thine ? 

Oh ! thy gentle smile of greeting 

Who again shall see ? 
Who amidst the solemn meeting 

Gaze again on thee ? — 
Who, when peril gathers o'er us, 

Wear so calm a brow ? 
Who, with evil men before us, 

So serene as thou ? 

Early hath the spoiler found thee, 

Brother of our love ! 
Autumn's faded earth around thee, 

And its storms above ! 
Evermore that turf lie lightly, 

And, with future showers, 
O'er thy slumbers fresh and brightly 

Blow the summer flowers ! 

In the locks thy forehead gracing, 

Not a silvery streak ; 
Nor a line of sorrow's tracing 

On thy fair young cheek ; 
Eyes of light and lips of roses, 

Such as Hylas wore — 
Over all that curtain closes, 

Which shall rise no more ! 



68 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Will the vigil Love is keeping 

Round that grave of thine, 
Mournfully, like Jazer weeping 

Over Sibmah's vine 5 — 
Will the pleasant memories, swelling 

Gentle hearts, of thee, 
In the spirit's distant dwelling 

All unheeded be ? 

If the spirit ever gazes, 

From its journeyings, back; 
If the immortal ever traces 

O'er its mortal track ; 
Wilt thou not, O brother, meet us 

Sometimes on our way, 
And, in hours of sadness, greet us 

As a spirit may ? 

Peace be with thee, our brother, 

In the spirit-land ! 
Vainly look we for another 

In thy place to stand. 
Unto Truth and Freedom giving 

All thy early powers, 
Be thy virtues with the living, 

And thy spirit ours ! 



A LAMENT. 



-" The parted spirit, 



Knoweth it not our sorrow? Answereth not 
Its blessing to our tears? " 

The circle is broken — one seat is forsaken, — 
One bud from the tree of our friendship is 

shaken — 
One heart from among us no longer shall thrill 
With joy in our gladness, or grief in our ill. 



A LAMENT. 69 

Weep ! — lonely and lowly, are slumbering now 
The light of her glances, the pride of her brow, 
Weep ! — sadly and long shall we listen in vain 
To hear the soft tones of her welcome again. 

Give our tears to the dead ! For humanity's 

claim 
From its silence and darkness is ever the same ; 
The hope of that World whose existence is 

bliss 
May not stifle the tears of the mourners of this. . 

For, oh ! if one glance the freed spirit can throw 
On the scene of its trouWed probation below, 
Than the pride of the marble — the pomp of the 

dead — 
To that glance will be dearer the tears which we 

shed. 

Oh, who can forget the mild light of her smile, 
Over lips moved with music and feeling the while — 
The eye's deep enchantment, dark, dream-like, 

and clear, 
In the glow of its gladness — the shade of its tear. 

And the charm of her features, while over the 

whole 
Played the hues of the heart and the sunshine of 

soul, — 
And the tones of her voice, like the music which 



Murmured low in our ears by the Angel of dreams ! 

But holier and dearer our memories hold 

Those treasures of feeling, more precious than 

gold— 
The love and the kindness and pity which gave 
Fresh flowers for the bridal, green wreaths for the 

grave ! 



70 MISCELLANEOUS. 

The heart ever open to Charity's claim, 
Unmoved from its purpose by censure and blame, 
While vainly alike on her eye and her ear 
Fell the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and jeer. 

How true to our hearts was that beautiful sleeper ! 
With smiles for the joyful, with tears for the 

weeper ! — 
Yet, evermore prompt, whether mournful or gay, 
With warnings in love to the passing astray. 

For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for 

them 
Who sullied with evil the spirit's pure gem ; 
And a sigh or a tear could the erring reprove, 
And the sting of reproof was still tempered by 

love. 

As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven, 
As a star that is lost when the daylight is given, 
As a glad dream of slumber, which wakens in bliss, 
She hath passed to the world of the holy from this. 



DANIEL WHEELER. 

[Daniel Wheeler, a minister of the Society of Friends, and 
who had labored in the cause of his Divine Master in Great 
Britain, Russia, and the islands of the Pacific, died in New York 
In the spring of 1840, while on a religious visit to this country.] 

Oh, dearly loved ! 
And worthy of our love ! — "No more 
Thy aged form shall rise before 
The hushed and waiting worshipper, 
In meek obedience utterance giving 
To words of truth, so fresh and living, 
That, even to the inward sense, 



DANIEL WHEELER. 71 

They bore unquestioned evidence 
Of an anointed Messenger ! 
Or, bowing down thy silver hair 
In reverent awfulness of prayer — 

The world, its time and sense, shut out — 
The brightness of Faith's holy trance 
Gathered upon thy countenance, 

As if each lingering cloud of doubt — 
The cold, dark shadows resting here 
In Time's unluminous atmosphere — 

Were lifted by an angel's hand, 
And through them on thy spiritual eye 
Shone down the blessedness on high, 

The glory of the Better Land ! 

The oak has fallen ! 
While, meet for no good work, the vine 
May yet its worthless branches twine. 
Who knoweth not that with thee fell 
A great man in our Israel ? 
Fallen, while thy loins were girded still, 

Thy feet with Zion's dews still wet, 

And in thy hand retaining yet 
The pilgrim's staff and scallop-shell ! 
Unharmed and safe, where, wild and free, 

Across tlie Neva's cold morass 
The breezes from the Frozen Sea 

With winter's arrowy keenness pass ; 
Or, where the unwarning tropic gale 
Smote to the waves thy tattered sail, 
Or, where the noon-hour's fervid heat 
Against Tahiti's mountains beat ; 

The same mysterious hand which gave 

Deliverance upon land and wave, 
Tempered for thee the blasts which blew 

Ladaga's frozen surface o'er, 
And blessed for thee the baleful dew 

Of evening upon Eimeo's shore, 
Beneath this sunny heaven of ours, 



?2 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Midst our soft airs and opening flowers 
Hath given thee a grave ! 

His will be done, 
Who seeth not as man, whose way 

Is not as ours ! — 'Tis well with thee ! 
Nor anxious doubt nor dark dismay 
Disquieted thy closing day, 
But, evermore, thy soul could say, 

" My Father careth still for me ! " 
Called from thy hearth and home — from her, 

The last bud on thy household tree, 
The last dear one to minister 

In duty and in love to thee, 
From all which nature holdeth dear, 

Feeble with years and worn with pain, 

To seek our distant land again, 
Bound in the spirit, yet unknowing 

The things which should befall thee here, 

Whether for labor or for death, 
In child-like trust serenely going 

To that last trial of thy faith ! 

Oh, far away, 
Where never shines our Northern star 

On that dark waste which Balboa saw 
From Darien's mountains stretching far, 
So strange, heaven-broad, and lone, that thero 
With forehead to its damp wind bare 

He bent his mailed knee in awe ; 
In many an isle whose coral feet 
The surges of that ocean beat, 
In thy palm shadows, Oahu, 

And Honolulu's silver bay, 
Amidst Owyhee's hills of blue, 

And taro-plains of Tooboonai, 
Are gentle hearts, which long shall be 
Sad as our own at thought of thee, — 
Worn sowers of Truth's holy seed, 



DANIEL WHEELER. 73 

Whose souls in weariness and need 

Were strengthened and refreshed by thine, 

For, blessed by our Father's hand, 
Was thy deep love and tender care, 
Thy ministry and fervent prayer — 

Grateful as Eschol's clustered vine 

To Israel in a weary land ! 

And they who drew 
By thousands round thee, in the hour 

Of prayerful waiting, hushed and deep, 

That He who bade the islands keep 
Silence before him, might renew 

Their strength with his unslumbering power, 
They too shall mourn that thou art gone, 

That never more thy aged lip 
Shall soothe the weak, the erring warn, 
Of those who first, rejoicing, heard 
Through thee the Gospel's glorious word — 

Seals of thy true apostleship. 
And, if the brightest diadem, 

WTiose gems of glory purely burn 

Around the ransomed ones in bliss, 
Be evermore reserved for them 

Who here, through toil and sorrow, turn 

Many to righteousness, — 
May we not think of thee, as wearing 
That star-like crown of light, and bearing, 
Amidst Heaven's white and blissful band, 
The fadeless palm-branch in thy hand ; 
And joining with a seraph's tongue 
In that new song the elders sung, 
Ascribing to its blessed Giver 
Thanksgiving, love, and praise forever ! 

Farewell ! 
And though the ways of Zion mourn 
When her strong ones are called away, 
Who like thyself have calmry borne 



74 MISCELLANEOUS. 

The heat and burden of the day, 
Yet He who slumbereth not nor sleepeth 
His ancient watch around us keepeth ; 
Still sent from his creating hand, 
New witnesses for Truth shall stand — 
New instruments to sound abroad 
The Gospel of a risen Lord ; 

To gather to the fold once more, 
The desolate and gone astray, 
. The scattered of a cloudy day, 

And Zion's brokf n walls restore s 
And, through the travail and the toil 

Of true obedience, minister 
Beauty for ashes, and the oil 

Of joy for mourning, unto her ! 
So shall her holy bounds increase 
With walls of praise and gates of peace : 
So shall the Vine, which martyr tears 
And blood sustained in other years, 

With fresher life be clothed upon ; 
And to the world in beauty show 
Like the rose-plant of Jericho, 

And glorious as Lebanon ! 



DANIEL NEALL. 



Friend of the Slave, and yet the friend of all ; 
Lover of peace, yet ever foremost, when 
The need of battling Freedom called for men 
To plant the banner on the outer wall ; 
Gentle and kindly, ever at distress 
Melted to more than woman's tenderness, 
Yet firm and steadfast, at his duty's post 
Fronting the violence of a maddened host, 



TO MY FRIEND. 75 

Like some gray rock from which the waves are 



! 

Knowing his deeds of love, men questioned not 
The faith of one whose walk and word were 
right — 
Who tranquilly in Life's great task-field wrought, 
And, side by side with evil, scarcely caught 

A stain upon his pilgrim garb of white : 
Prompt to redress another's wrong, his own 
Leaving to Time and Truth and Penitence alone 



Such was our friend. Formed on the good old plan, 
A true and brave and downright honest man ! — 
He blew no trumpet in the market-place, 
Nor in the church with hypocritic face 
Supplied with cant the lack of Christian grace ; 
Loathing pretence, he did with cheerful will 
What others talked of while their hands were still : 
And, while " Lord, Lord ! " the pious tyrants cried, 
Who, in the poor, their Master crucified, 
His daily prayer, far better understood 
In acts than words, was simply doing good. 
So calm, so constant was his rectitude, 
That, by his loss alone we know its worth, 
And feel how true a man has walked with us on 
earth, 

Sixth month Gth, 1846. 



TO MY FKIEND ON THE DEATH OF HIS 
SISTER.6 

Thine is a grief, the depth of which another 

May never know ; 
Fet, o'er the waters, O, my stricken brother ! 

To thee I go. 



76 MISCELLANEOUS. 

I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding 

Thy hand in mine ; 
With even the weakness of my soul upholding 

The strength of thine. 

I never knew, like thee, the dear departed ; 

I stood not by 
When, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-heartod 

Lay down to die. 

And on thy ears my words of weak condoling 

Must vainly fall : 
The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling, 

Sounds over all ! 

I will not mock thee with the poor world's common 

And heartless phrase, 
Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman 

With idle praise. 

With silence only as their benediction, 

God's angels come 
Where, in the shadow of a great affliction, 

The soul sits dumb ! 

Yet, would I say what thy own heart approveth : 

Our Father's will, 
Calling to Him the dear one whom He loveth, 

Is mercy still. 

Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel 

Hath evil wrought : 
Her funeral anthem is a glad evangel — 

The good die not ! 

God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly 

What He hath given ; 
They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly 

As in his heaven. 



GONE. 77 

And she is with thee ; in thy path of trial 

She walketh yet ; 
Still with the baptism of thy self-denial 

Her locks are wet. 

Up, then, my brother ! Lo, the fields of harvest 

Lie white in view ! 
She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest 

To both is true. 

Thrust in thy sickle ! — England's toil-worn peasants 

Thy call abide ; 
And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence, 

Shall glean beside ! 



GONE. 

Another hand is beckoning us, 

Another call is given ; 
And glows once more with Angel-steps 

The path which reaches Heaven. 

Our young and gentle friend whose smile 
Made brighter summer hours, 

Amid the frosts of autumn time 
Has left us with the flowers. 

No paling of the cheek of bloom 

1 orewarned us of decay ; 
No shadow from the Silent Land 

Fell round our sister's way. 

The light of her young life went down, 

As sinks behind the hill 
The glory of a setting star — 

Clear, suddenly, and still. 



78 MISCELLANEOUS. 

As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed 

Eternal as the sky ; 
And like the brook's low song, her voice — 

A sound which could not die. 

And half we deemed she needed not 

The changing of her sphere, 
To give to Heaven a Shining One, 

Who walked an Angel here. 

The blessing of her quiet life 

Fell on us like the dew ; 
And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed 

Like fairy blossoms grew. 

Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds 

Were in her very look ; 
We read her face, as one who reads 

A true and holy book : 

The measure of a blessed hymn, 
To which our hearts could move ; 

The breathing of an inward psalm ; 
A canticle of love. 

We miss her in the place of prayer, 

And by the hearth-fire's light ; 
We pause beside her door to hear 

Once more her sweet " Good night !' 

There seems a shadow on the day, 

Her smile no longer cheers ; 
A dimness on the stars of night, 

Like eyes that look through tears. 

Alone unto our Father's will 

One thought hath reconciled ; 
That He whose love exceedeth oura 

Hath taken home his child, 



THE LAKE-SIDE. 79 

Fold her, oh Father ! in thine arms, 

And let her henceforth be 
A messenger of love between 

Our human hearts and Thee. 

Still let her mild rebuking stand 

Between us and the wrong, 
And her dear memory serve to make 

Our faith in Goodness strong. 

And grant that she who, trembling, here 

Distrusted all her powers, 
May welcome to her holier home 

The well beloved of ours. 



THE LAKE-SIDE. 

The shadows round the inland sea 

Are deepening into night ; 
Slow up the slopes of Ossipee 

They chase the lessening light. 
Tired of the long day's blinding heat, 

I rest my languid eye, 
Lake of the Hills ! where, cool and sweet, 

Thy sunset waters lie 1 

Along the sky, in wavy lines, 

O'er isle and reach and bay, 
Green-belted with eternal pines, 

The mountains stretch away. 
Below, the maple masses sleep 

Where shore with water blends, 
While midway on the tranquil deep 

The evening light descends. 

So seemed it when yon hill's red crown, 
Of old, the Indian trod, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 

And, through the sunset air, looked down 

Upon the Smile of God. 7 
To him of light and shade the laws 

No forest seeptic taught ; 
Their living and eternal Cause 

His truer instinct sought. 

He saw these mountains in the light 

Which now across them shines ; 
This lake, in summer sunset bright, 

Walled round with sombering pines. 
God near him seemed ; from earth and skiest 

His loving voice he heard, 
As, face to face, in Paradise, 

Man stood before the Lord. 

Thanks, oh, our Father ! that, like him, 

Thy tender love I see, 
In radiant hill and woodland dim, 

And tinted sunset sea. 
For not in mockery dost Thou fill 

Our earth with light and grace ; 
Thou hid'st no dark and cruel will 

Behind Thy smiling face ! 



THE HILL-TOP. 

The burly driver at my side, 

We slowly climbed the hill, 
Whose summit, in the hot noontide, 

Seemed rising, rising still. 
At last, our short noon-shadows hid 

The top-stone, bare and brown, 
From whence, like Gizeh's pyramid, 

The rough mass slanted down. 



THE HILL-TOP. 81 

I felt the cool breath of the North ; 

Between me and die sun, 
O'er deep, still lake, and ridgy earth, 

I saw the cloud-shades run. 
Before ine, stretched for glistening miles, 

Lay mountain-girdled Squam; 
Like green-winged birds, the leafy isles 

Upon its bosom swam. 

And, glimmering through the sun-haze warm, 

Far as the eye could roam, 
Dark billows of an earthquake storm 

Bellecked with clouds like foam, 
Their vales in misty shadow deep, 

Their rugged peaks in shine, 
I saw the mountain ranges sweep 

The horizon's northern line. 

There towered Chocorua's peak; and west, 

Moosehillock's woods were seen, 
With many a nameless slide-scarred crest 

And pine-dark gorge between. 
Beyond them, like a sun-rimmed cloud, 

The great Notch mountains shone, 
"Watched over by the solemn-browed 

And awful face of stone 1 

" A good look-oil' 1" the driver spake : 

"About this time, last year, 
I drove a party to the Lake, 

And stopped, at evening, here. 
'Twas duskish down below ; but all 

These hills stood in the sun, 
Till, dipped behind yon purple wall, 

He left them, one by one. 

"A lady, who, from Thornton hill, 
Had held her place outside, 

VOL. II. 6 



I MISCELLANEOUS. 

And, as a pleasant woman will, 
Had cheered the long, dull ride, 

Besought me, with so sweet a smile, 
That — though I hate delays — 

I could not choose but rest awhile — 
(These women have such ways !) 

" On yonder mossy ledge she sat, 

Her sketch upon her knees, 
A stray brown lock beneath her hat 

Unrolling in the breeze ; 
Her sweet face, in the sunset light 

Upraised and glorified, — 
I never saw a prettier sight 

In all my mountain ride. 

"As good as fair ; it seemed her joy 
To comfort and to give ; 

My poor, sick wife, and cripple boy, 
Will bless her while they live ! " 

The tremor in the driver's tone 
His manhood did not shame : 

" I dare say, sir, you may have known- 
He named a well-known name. 

Then sank the pyramidal mounds, 

The blue lake fled away ; 
For mountain-scope a parlour's bounds, 

A lighted hearth for day ! 
From lonely years and weary miles 

The shadows fell apart ; 
Kind voices cheered, sweet human smiles 

Shone warm into my heart. 

We journeyed on ; but earth and sky 
Had power to charm no more ; 

Still dreamed my inward-turning eye 
The dream of memory o'er. 



ON RECEIVING AN EAGLE'S QUILL. 88 

All ! human kindness, human love — 

To few who seek denied — 
Too late we learn to prize above 

The whole round world beside ! 



ON RECEIVING AN EAGLE'S QUILL 
FROM LAKE SUPERIOR. 

All day the darkness and the cold 

Upon my heart have lain, 
Like shadows on the winter sky, 

Like frost upon the pane ; 

But now my torpid fancy wakes, 

And, on thy Eagle's plume, 
Rides forth, like Sinbad on his bird, 

Or witch upon her broom ! 

Below me roar the rocking pines, 

Before me spreads the lake, 
Whose long and solemn-sounding waves 

Against the sunset break. 

I hear the wild Rice-Eater thresh 

The grain he has not sown ; 
I see, with flashing scythe of fire, 

The prairie harvest mown ! 

I hear the far-off voyager's horn ; 

I see the Yankee's trail — 
His foot on every mountain-pass, 

On every stream his sail. 

By forest, lake and water-fall, 

I see his peddler show ; 
The mighty mingling with the mean, 

The lofty with the low. 



8-4 MISCELLANEOUS. 

He's whittling by St. Mary's Falls, 

Upon his loaded wain ; 
He's measuring o'er the Pictured Rocks, 

With eager eyes of gain. 

I hear the mattock in the mine, 

The axe-stroke in the dell, 
The clamor from the Indian lodge, 

The Jesuit chapel bell ! 

I see the swarthy trappers come 

From Mississippi's springs; 
And war-chiefs with their painted brows, 

And crests of eagle wings. 

Behind the scared squaw's birch canoe, 
The steamer smokes and raves ; 

And city lots are staked for sale 
Above old Indian graves. 

I hear the tread of pioneers 

Of nations yet to be ; 
The first low wash of waves, where soon 

Shall roll a human sea. 

The rudiments of empire here 

Are plastic yet and warm ; 
The chaos of a mighty world 

Is rounding into form ! 

Each rude and jostling fragment soon 
Its fitting place shall find — 

The raw material of a State, 
Its muscle and its mind ! 

And, westering still, the star which leads 
The New World in its train 

Has tipped with fire the iey spears 
Of many a mountain chain. 



MEMORIES. 85 

The snowy eones of Oregon 

Are kindling on its way; 
And California's golden sands 

Gleam brighter in its ray ! 

Then, blessings on thy eagle quill, 

As, wandering far and wide, 
I thank. thee for this twilight dream 

And Fancy's airy ride T 

Yet, welcomer than regal plumes, 

Which Western trappers find, 
Thy free and pleasant thoughts, chance-sown, 

Like feathers on the wind. 

Thy symbol be the mountain-bird, 

Whose glistening quill I hold ; 
Thy home the ample air of hope, 

And memory's sunset gold ! 

In thee, let joy with duty join, 

And strength unite with love, 
The eagle's pinions folding round 

The warm heart of the dove ! 

So, when in darkness sleeps the vale 
Where still the blind bird clings, 

The sunshine of the upper sky 
Shall glitter on thy wings ! 



MEMORIES. 

A beautiful and happy girl, 

With step as light as summer air, 
Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl, 
Shadowed by many a careless curl 



86 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Of unconfined and flowing hair ; 
A seeming child in everything, 

Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms, 
As Nature wears the smile of Spring 

When sinking into Summer's arms. 

A mind rejoicing in the light 

Which melted through its graceful bower, 
Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright, 
And stainless in its holy white, 

Unfolding like a morning flower: 
A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute, 

With every breath of feeling woke, 
And, even when the tongue was mute, 

From eye and lip in music spoke. 

How thrills once more the lengthening chain 

Of memory, at the thought of thee ! 
Old hopes which long in dust have lain 
Old dreams, come thronging back again, 

And boyhood lives again in me ; 
I feel its glow upon my cheek, 

Its fulness of the heart is mine, 
As when I leaned to hear thee speak, 

Or raised my doubtful eye to thine. 

I hear again thy low replies, 

I feel thy arm within my own, 
And timidly again uprise 
The fringed lids of hazel eyes, 

With soft brown tresses overblown. 
Ah ! memories of sweet summer eves, 

Of moonlit wave and willowy way, 
Of stars and flowers, and dewy leaves, 

And smiles and tones more dear than they ! 

Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smiled 

My picture of thy youth to see, 
When, half a woman, half a child, 



MEMORIES. 87 

Thy very artlessness beguiled, 

And folly's self seemed wise in thee ; 

I too can smile, when o'er that hour 
The lights of memory backward stream, 

Yet feel the while that manhood's power 
Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. 

Years have passed on, and left their trace 

Of graver care and deeper thought ; 
And unto me the calm, cold face 
Of manhood, and to thee the grace 

Of woman's pensive beauty brought. 
More wide, perchance, for blame than praise, 

The school-boy's humble name has flown ; 
Thine, in the green and quiet ways 

Of unobtrusive goodness known. 

And wider yet in thought and deed 

Diverge our pathways, one in youth ; 
Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, 
While answers to my spirit's need 

The Derby dalesman's simple truth. 
For thee, the priestly rite and prayer, 

And holy day, and solemn psalm ; 
For me, the silent reverence where 

My brethren gather, slow and calm. 

Yet hath thy spirit left on me 

An impress Time has worn not out, 
And something of myself in thee, 
A shadow from the past, I see, 

Lingering, even yet, thy way about; 
Not wholly can the heart unlearn 

That lesson of its better hours, 
Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn 

To common dust that path of flowers. 

r 

Thus, while at times before our eyes 
The shadows melt, and fall apart, 



88 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And, smiling through them, round us lies 
The warm light of our morning skies — 

The Indian Summer of the heart ! — 
In secret sympathies of mind, 

In founts of feeling which retain 
Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find 

Our early dreams not wholly vain ! 



THE LEGEND OF ST. MARK.* 

The day is closing dark and cold, 

With roaring blast and sleety showers ; 

And through the dusk the lilacs wear 
The bloom of snow, instead of flowers. 

I turn me from the gloom without, 

To ponder o'er a tale of old, 
A legend of the age of Faith, 

By dreaming monk or abbess told. 

On Tintoretto's canvas lives 
That fancy of a loving heart, 

In graceful lines and shapes of power, 
And hues immortal as his art. 

In Provence (so the story runs) 

There lived a lord, to whom, as slave, 

A peasant boy of tender years 

The chance of trade or conquest gave. 

Forth-looking from the castle tower, 
Beyond the hills with almonds dark, 

The straining eye could scarce discern 
The chapel of the good St. Mark. 



THE LEGEND OF ST. MARK. 3d 

And there, when bitter word or fare 
The service of the youth repaid, 

By stealth, before that holy shrine, 

For grace to bear his wrong, he prayed. 

The steed stamped at the castle gate, 
The boar-hunt sounded on the hill ; 

Why stayed the Baron from the chase, 
With looks so stern, and words so ill ? 

" Go, bind yon slave ! and let him learn, 
By scathe of fire and strain of cord, 

How ill they speed who give dead saints 
The homage due their living lord ! " 

They bound him on the fearful rack, 

When, through the dungeon's vaulted dark, 

He saw the light of shining robes, 
And knew the face of good St. Mark. 

Then sank the iron rack apart, 

The cords released their cruel clasp, 

The pincers, with their teeth of fire, 
Fell broken from the torturer's grasp. 

And lo ! before the Youth and Saint, 

Barred door and wall of stone gave way* 

And up from bondage and the night 
They passed to freedom and the day ! 

O, dreaming monk ! thy tale is true ; — 
O, painter ! true thy pencil's art ; 

In tones of hope and prophecy, 
Ye whisper to my listening heart ! 

Unheard no burdened heart's appeal 
Moans up to God's inclining ear; 

Unheeded by his tender eye, 
Falls to the earth no sufferer's tear. 



90 MISCELLANEOUS. 

For still the Lord alone is God ! 

The pomp and power of tyrant man 
Are scattered at his lightest breath, 

Like chaff before the winnower's fan. 

Not always shall the slave uplift 
His heavy hands to Heaven in vain 

God's angel, like the good St. Mark, 

Comes shining down to break his chain ! 

O, weary ones ! ye may not see 

Your helpers in their downward flight ; 

Nor hear the sound of silver wings 

Slow beating through the hush of night ! 

But not the less gray Dothan shone, 
With sunbright watchers bending low, 

That Fear's dim eye beheld alone 
The spear-heads of the Syrian foe. 

There are, who, like the Seer of old, 
Can see the helpers God has sent, 

And how life's rugged mountain-side 
Is white with many an angel tent ! 

They hear the heralds whom our Lord 
Sends down his pathway to prepare ; 

And light, from others hidden, shines 
On their high place of faith and prayer. 

Let such, for earth's despairing ones, 
Hopeless, yet longing to be free, 

Breathe once again the Prophet's prayer : 
" Lord, ope their eyes, that they may see ! " 



THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE. 91 



THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE.9 

Calm on the breast of Loch Maree 

A little isle reposes ; 
A shadow woven of the oak 

And willow o'er it closes. 

Within, a Druid's mound is seen, 
Set round with stony warders ; 

A fountain, gushing through the turf, 
Flows o'er its grassy borders. 

And whoso bathes therein his brow, 
With care or madness burning, 

Feels once again his healthful thought 
And sense of peace returning. 

O ! restless heart and fevered brain, 

Unquiet and unstable, 
That holy well of Loch Maree 

Is more than idle fable ! 

Life's changes vex, its discords stun, 
Its glaring sunshine blindeth, 

And blest is he who on his way 
That fount of healing findeth ! 

The shadows of a humbled will 
And contrite heart are o'er it : 

Go read its legend — " Trust in Gob "- 
On Faith's white stones before it. 



92 MISCELLANEOUS. 



TO MY SISTER: 



TTH A COPT OF " STJPERNATURALISM OP NEW ENGLAND." 

Dear Sister !— while the wise and sage 
Turn coldly from my playful page, 
And count it strange that ripened age 

Should stoop to boyhood's folly ; 
I know that thou wilt judge aright 
Of all which makes the heart more light, 
Or lends one star-gleam to the night 

Of clouded Melancholy. 

Away with weary cares and themes ! — 
Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams ! 
Leave free once more the land which teems 

With wonders and romances ! 
Where thou, with clear discerning eyes, 
Shalt rightly read the truth which lies 
Beneath the quaintly masking guise 

Of wild and wizard fancies. 

Lo ! once again our feet we set 

On still green wood-paths, twilight wet, 

By lonely brooks, whose waters fret 

The roots of spectral beeches ; 
Again the hearth-fire glimmers o'er 
Home's white-washed wall and painted floor, 
And young eyes widening to the lore 

Of faery-folks and witches. 

Dear heart ! — the legend is not vain 
Which lights that holy hearth again, 
And, calling back from care and pain, 

And death's funereal sadness, 
Draws round its old familiar blaze 



AUTUMN THOUGHTS. 93 

The clustering groups of happier days, 
And lends to sober manhood's gaze 
A glimpse of childish gladness. 

And, knowing how my life hath been 

A weary work of tongue and pen, 

A long, harsh strife, with strong-willed men, 

Thou wilt not chide my turning, 
To con, at times, an idle rhyme, 
To pluck a flower from childhood's clime, 
Or listen, at Life's noonday chime, 

For the sweet bells of Morning ! 



AUTUMN THOUGHTS. 



FROM "MARGARET SMITH'S JOURNAL." 

Gone hath the Spring, with all its flowers, 
Andgone the Summer's pomp and show, 

And Autumn, in his leafless bowers, 
Is waiting for the Winter's snow. 

I said to Earth, so cold and gray, 
" An emblem of myself thou art : " 

" Not so," the Earth did seem to say, 

•' For Spring shall warm my frozen heart." 

I soothe my wintry sleep with dreams 
Of warmer sun and softer rain, 

And wait to hear the sound of streams 
And songs of merry birds again. 

But thou, from whom the Spring hath gone, 
For whom the flowers no longer blow, 

Who standest blighted and forlorn, 
Like Autumn waiting for the snow : 



94 MISCELLANEOUS. 

No hope is thine of sunnier hours, 
Thy Winter shall no more depart ; 

No Spring revive thy wasted flowers, 
Nor Summer warm thy frozen heart 



CALEF IN BOSTON, 1692. 

In the solemn days of old, 

Two men met in Boston town — 

One a tradesman frank and bold, 
One a preacher of renown. 

Cried the last, in bitter tone — 
" Poisoner of the wells of truth ! 

Satan's hireling, thou hast sown 
With his tares the heart of youth ! * 

Spake the simple tradesman then — 
" God be judge 'twixt thou and I ; 

All thou knowest of truth hath been 
Unto men like thee a lie. 

" Falsehoods which we spurn to-day 
Were the truths of long ago ; 

Let the dead boughs fall away, 
Fresher shall the living grow. 

" God is good and God is light, 
In this faith I rest secure ; 

Evil can but serve the right, 
Over all shall love endure. 

" Of your spectral puppet play 
I have traced the cunning wires ; 

Come what will, I needs must say, 
God is true, and ye are liars." 



TO PIUS IX. 95 

When the thought of man is free, 

Error fears its lightest tones; 
So the priest cried, " Sadducee ! " 

And the people took up stones. 

In the ancient burying-ground, 
Side by side the twain now lie — 

One with humble grassy mound, 
One with marbles pale and high. 

But the Lord hath blest the seed 

Which that tradesman scattered then, 

And the preacher's spectral creed 
Chills no more the blood of men. 

Let us trust, to one is known 

Perfect love which casts out fear, 

While the other's joys atone 
For the wrong he suffered here. 



TO PIUS IX.10 

The cannon's brazen lips are cold ; 

No red shell blazes down the air ; 
And street and tower, and temple old, 

Are silent as despair. 

The Lombard stands no more at bay — 
Rome's fresh young life has bled in vain ; 

The ravens scattered by the day 
Come back with night again. 

Now, while the fratricides pf France 
Are treading on the neck of Rome, 

Hider at Gaeta — seize thy chance ! 
Coward and cruel, come ! 



96 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Creep now from Naples' bloody skirt ; 

Thy mummer's part was acted well, 
While Rome, with steel and fire begirt, 

Before thy crusade fell ! 

Her death-groans answered to thy prayer: 
Thy chant, the drum and bugle-call ; 

Thy lights, the burning villa's glare ; 
Thy beads, the shell and ball ! 

Let Austria clear thy way, with hands 
Foul from Ancona's cruel sack, 

And Naples, with his dastard bands 
Of murderers, lead thee back ! 

Rome's lips are dumb ; the orphan's wail, 
The mother's shriek, thou may'tjt not hear 

Above the faithless Frenchman's hail, 
The unsexed shaveling's cheer ! 

Go, bind on Rome her cast-off' weight, # 
The double curse of crook and crown, 

Though woman's scorn and manhood's hate 
From wall and roof flash down ! 

Nor heed those blood-stains on the wall, 
Not Tiber's flood can wash away, 

Where, in thy stately Quirinal, 
Thy mangled victims lay ! 

Let the world murmur ; let its cry 
Of horror and disgust be heard ; — 

Truth stands alone ; thy coward lie 
Is backed by lance and sword ! 

The cannon of St. Angelo, 

And chanting priest and clanging bell, 
And beat of drum and bugle blow, 

Shall greet thy coming well ! 



TO PIUS IX. 97 

Let lips of iron and tongues of slaves 
Fit welcome give thee ; — for her part, 

Rome, frowning o'er her new-made graves, 
Shall curse thee from her heart ! 

No wreaths of sad Campagna's flowers 
Shall childhood in thy pathway fling ; 

No garlands from their ravaged bowers 
Shall Terni's maidens bring ; 

But, hateful as that tyrant old, 
The mocking witness of his crime, 

In thee shall loathing eyes behold 
The Nero of our time ! 

Stand where Rome's blood was freest shed, 
Mock Heaven with impious thanks, and call 

Its curses on the patriot dead, 
Its blessings on the Gaul ! 

Or sit upon thy throne of lies, 

A poor, mean idol, blood-besmeared, 

Whom even its worshippers despise — 
Unhonored, unrevered ! 

Yet, Scandal of the World ! from thee 
One needful truth mankind shall learn — 

That kings and priests to Liberty 
And God are false in turn. 

Earth wearies of them ; and the long 

Meek sufferance of the Heavens doth fail ; 

Woe for weak tyrants, when the strong 
Wake, struggle, and prevail ! 

Not vainly Roman hearts have bled 
To feed the Crozier and the Crown, 

If, roused thereby, the world shall tread 
The twin-born vampires down ! 
roL. n. 7 



58 MISCELLANEOUS. 



ELLIOTT." 

Hands off! thou tythe-fat plunderer ! play- 
No trick of priestcraft here ! 

Back, puny lordling ! darest thou lay 
A hand on Elliott's bier ? 

Alive, your rank and pomp, as dust, 
Beneath his feet he trod : 

He knew the locust swarm that cursed 
The harvest-fields of God. 

On these pale lips, the smothered thought 
Which England's millions feel, 

A fierce and fearful splendor caught, 
As from his forge the steel. 

Strong-armed as Thor — a shower of fire 
His smitten anvil flung ; 

God's curse, Earth's wrong, dumb Hunger's ire- 
He gave them all a tongue ! 

Then let the poor man's horny hands 

Bear up the mighty dead, 
And labor's swart and stalwart bands 

Behind as mourners tread. 
Leave cant and craft their baptized bounds, 

Leave rank its minster floor ; 
Give England's green and daisied grounds 

The poet of the poor ! 

I jay down upon his Sheaf's green verge 

That brave old heart of oak, 
With fitting dirge from sounding forge. 

And pall of furnace smoke ! 
Where whirls the stone its dizzy rounds, 



And, timing to their stormy sounds, 
His stormy lays are sung. 



ICHABOD ! 

There let the peasant's step be heard, 

The grinder chant his rhyme ; 
Nor patron's praise nor dainty word 

Befits the man or time. 
No soft lament nor dreamer's sigh 

For him whose words were bread — 
The Runic rhyme and spell whereby 

The foodless poor were fed ! 

Pile up thy tombs of rank and pride, 

England, as thou wilt ! 
With pomp to nameless worth denied, 

Emblazon titled guilt ! 
No part or lot in these we claim ; 

But, o'er the sounding wave, 
A common right to Elliott's name, 

A freehold in his grave ! 



ICHABOD ! 

So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn 

Which once he wore ! 
The glory from his gray hairs gone 

Forevermore ! 

Revile him not — the Tempter hath 

A snare for all ; 
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 

Befit his fall ! 

Oh ! dumb be passion's stormy rage, 

When he who might 
Have lighted up and led his age, 

Falls back in night. 

Scorn ! would the angels laugh, to mark 
A. bright soul driven, 



100 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, 
From hope and heaven ! 

Let not the land, once proud of him, 

Insult him now, 
Nor trand with deeper shame his dim, 

Dishonored brow. 

But let its humbled sons, instead, 

From sea to lake, 
A long lament, as for the dead, 

In sadness make. 

Of all we loved and honored, nought 

Save power remains — 
A fallen angel's pride of thought, 

Still strong in chains. 

All else is gone ; from those great eyes 

The soul has fled : 
When faith is lost, when honor dies, 

The man is dead ! 

Then, pay the reverence of old days 

To his dead fame ; 
Walk backward, with averted gaze, 

And hide the shame ! 



THE CHRISTIAN TOURISTS.** 

No aimless wanderers, by the fiend Unrest 

Goaded from shore to shore ; 
No schoolmen, turning, in their classic quest, 

The leaves of empire o'er. 
Simple of faith, and bearing in their hearts 

The love of man and God, 



THE CHRISTIAN TOURISTS- 1Q1 

Isles of old song, the Moslem's ancient marts, 
And Scythia's steppes, they trod. 

Where the long shadows of the fir and pine 

In the night sun are cast, 
And the deep heart of many a Norland mine 

Quakes at each riving blast ; 
Where, in barbaric grandeur, Moskwa stands, 

A baptized Scythian queen, 
With Europe's arts and Asia's jewelled hands, 

The North and East between ! 

Where still, through vales of Grecian fable, stray 

The classic forms of yore, 
And Beauty smiles, new risen from the spray, 

And Dian weeps once more ; 
Where every tongue in Smyrna's mart resounds ; 

And Stamboul from the sea 
Lifts her tall minarets over burial-grounds 

Black with the cypress tree ! 

From Malta's temples to the gates of Rome, 

Following the track of Paul, 
And where the Alps gird round the Switzer's 
home 

Their vast, eternal wall ; 
They paused not by the ruins of old time, 

They scanned no pictures rare, 
Nor lingered where the snow-locked mountains 
climb 

The cold abyss of air ! 

But unto prisons, where men lay in chains, 

To haunts where Hunger pined, 
To kings and courts forgetful of the pains 

And wants of human kind, 
Scattering sweet words, and quiet deeds of 
good, 

Along their way, like flowers, 



102 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Or, pleading as Christ's freemen only could, 
With princes and with powers ; 

Their single aim the purpose to fulfil 

Of Truth, from day to day, 
Simply obedient to its guiding will, 

They held their pilgrim way. 
Yet dream not, hence, the beautiful and old 

Were wasted on their sight, 
Who in the school of Christ had learned to hold 

All outward things aright. 

Not less to them the breath of vineyards blown 

From off the Cyprian shore, 
Not less for them the Alps in sunset shone, 

That man they valued more. 
A life of beauty lends to all it sees 

The beauty of its thought ; 
And fairest forms and sweetest harmonies 

Make glad its way, unsought. 

In sweet accordancy of praise and love, 

The singing waters run ; 
And sunset mountains wear in light above 

The smile of duty done ; 
Sure stands the promise — ever to the meek 

A heritage is given ; 
Nor lose they Earth who, single-hearted, seek 

The righteousness of Heaven ! 



THE MEN OF OLD. 

Well speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast ! 
Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art, 
If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart, 

Thou tread'st the solemn Pantheon of the Past, 
By the great Future's dazzling hope made blind 



THE MEN OF OLD. 103 

To all the beauty, power, and truth, behind. 
Not without reverent awe shouldst thou put by 

The cypress branches and the amaranth blooms. 

Where, with clasped hands of prayer, upon 
their tombs 
The effigies of old confessors lie, 
God's witnesses ; the voices of his will, 
Heard in the slow march of the centuries still ! 
Such were the men at whose rebuking frown, 
Dark with God's wrath, the tyrant's knee went 

down ; 
Such from the terrors of the guilty drew 
The vassal's freedom and the poor man's due. 

St. Anselm (may he rest forevermore 

In Heaven's sweet peace !) forbade, of old, the 
sale 

Of men as slaves, and from the sacred pale 
Hurled the Northumbrian buyers of the poor. 
To ransom souls from bonds and evil fate 
St. Ambrose melted down the sacred plate — 
Image of saint, the chalice, and the pix, 
Crosses of gold, and silver candlesticks. 
" Man is worth more than temples ! " he 

replied 
To such as came his holy work to chide. 
And brave Cesarius, stripping altars bare, 

And coining from the Abbey's golden hoard 
The captive's freedom, answered to the prayer 

Or threat of those whose fierce zeal for the Lord 
Stifled their love of man — " An earthen dish 

The last sad supper of the Master bore : 
Most miserable sinners ! do ye wish 

More than your Lord, and grudge his dying 
poor 
What your own pride and not his need requires ? 

Souls, than these shining gauds, He values 



Mercy, not sacrifice, his heart desires ! " 



104 MISCELLANEOUS. 

O faithful worthies ! resting far behind 
In your dark ages, since ye fell asleep, 
Much has been done for truth and human kind — 
Shadows are scattered wherein ye groped blind ; 
Man claims his birthright, freer pulses leap 
Through peoples driven in your day like sheep ; 
Yet, like your own, our age's sphere of light, 
Though widening still, is walled around by night ; 
With slow, reluctant eye, the Church has read, 
Sceptic at heart, the lessons of its Head ; 
Counting, too oft, its living members less 
Than the wall's garnish and the pulpit's dress ; 
World-moving zeal, with power to bless and feed 
Life's fainting pilgrims, to their utter need, 
Instead of bread, holds out the stone of creed ; 
Sect builds and worships where its wealth and pride 
And vanity stand shrined and deified, 
Careless that in the shadow of its walls 
God's living temple into ruin falls. 
We need, methinks, the prophet-hero still, 
Saints true of life, and martyrs strong of will, 
To tread the land, even now, as Xavier trod 

The streets of Goa, barefoot, with his bell, 
Proclaiming freedom in the name of God, 

And startling tyrants with the fear of hell ! 

Soft words, smooth prophecies, are doubtless well ; 
But to rebuke the age's popular crime, 
We need the souls of fire, the hearts of that old 
time! 



THE PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUS- 

SELS. 

Still in thy streets, oh Paris ! doth the stain 
Of blood defy the cleansing autumn rain ; 
Still breaks the smoke Messina's ruins through, 



PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUSSELS. 105 

And Naples mourns that new Bartholomew, 
When squalid beggary, for a dole of bread, 
At a crowned murderer's beck of license fed 
The yawning trenches with her noble dead ; 
Still, doomed Vienna, through thy stately halls 
The shell goes crashing and the red shot falls, 
And, leagued to crush thee, on the Danube's side, 
The bearded Croat and Bosniak spearman ride ; 
Still in that vale where Himalaya's snow 
Melts round the cornfields and the vines below, 
The Sikh's hot cannon, answering ball for ball, 
Flames in the breach of Moultan's shattered wall ; 
On Chenab's side the vulture seeks the slain, 
And Sutlej paints with blood its banks again. 
" What folly, then," the faithless critic cries, 
With sneering lip, and wise, world-knowing eyes, 
" While fort to fort, and post to post, repeat 
The ceaseless challenge of the war-drum's beat, 
And round the green earth, to the church-bell's 

chime, 
The morning drum-roll of the camp keeps time, 
To dream of peace amidst a world in arms, 
Of swords to ploughshares changed by scriptural 

charms, 
Of nations, drunken with the wine of blood, 
Staggering to take the Pledge of Brotherhood, 
Like tipplers answering Father Mathew's call — 
The sullen Spaniard, and the mad-cap Gaul, 
The bull-dog Briton, yielding but with life, 
The Yankee swaggering with his bowie knife, 
The Buss, from banquets with the vulture shared, 
The blood still dripping from his amber beard, 
Quitting their mad Berserker dance, to hear 
The dull, meek droning of a drab-coat seer ; 
Leaving the sport of Presidents and Kings, 
Where men for dice each titled gambler flings, 
To meet alternate on the Seine and Thames, 
For tea and gossip, like old country dames ! 
No ! let the cravens plead the weakling's cant, 



106 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Let Cobden cipher, and let Vincent rant, 

Let Sturge preach peace to democratic throngs, 

And Burritt, stammering through his hundred 

tongues, 
Repeat, in all, his ghostly lessons o'er, 
Timed to the pauses of the battery's roar ; 
Check Ban or Kaiser with the barricade 
Of " Olive-leaves " and Resolutions made, 
Spike guns with pointed scripture-texts, and hope 
To capsize navies with a windy trope ; 
Still shall the glory and the pomp of War 
Along their train the shouting millions draw ; 
Still dusty Labor to the passing Brave 
His cap shall doff, and Beauty's kerchief wave ; 
Still shall the bard to Valor tune his song, 
Still Hero-worship kneel before the Strong ; 
Rosy and sleek, the sable-gowned divine, 
O'er his third bottle of suggestive wine, 
To plumed and sworded auditors, shall prove 
Their trade accordant with the Law of Love ; 
And Church for State, and State for Church, shall 

fight, 
And both agree, that Might alone is Right ! " 
Despite of sneers like these, oh, faithful few, 
Who dare to hold God's word and witness true, 
Whose clear-eyed faith transcends our evil time, 
And, o'er the present wilderness of crime, 
Sees the calm future, with its robes of green, 
Its fleece-flecked mountains, and soft streams be- 

tween, — 
Still keep the path which duty bids ye tread, 
Though worldly wisdom shake the cautious head ; 
No truth from Heaven descends upon our sphere, 
Without the greeting of the sceptic's sneer ; 
Denied and mocked at, till its blessings fall, 
Common as dew and sunshine, over all. 

Then, o'er Earth's war-field, till the strife shall 
cease, 



THE WISH OF TO-DAY. 107 

Like Morven's harpers, sing your song of peace ; 
As in old fable rang the Thracian's lyre, 
Midst howl of fiends and roar of penal fire, 
Till the fierce din to pleasing murmurs fell, 
And love subdued the maddened heart of hell. 
Lend, once again, that holy song a tongue, 
Which the glad angels of the Advent sung, 
Their cradle-anthem for the Saviour's birth, 
Glory to God, and peace unto the earth ! 
Through the mad discord send that calming word 
Which wind and wave on wild Genesereth heard, 
Lift in Christ's name his Cross against the Sword ! 
3STot vain the vision which the prophets saw, 
Skirting with green the fiery waste of war, 
Through the hot ^and-gleam, looming soft and calm 
On the sky's rim, the fountain-shading palm. 
Still lives for Earth, which fiends so long have trod, 
The great hope resting on the truth of God — 
Evil shall cease and Violence pass away, 
And the tired world breathe free through a long 
Sabbath day. 

11th Mo., 1848. 



THE WISH OF TO-DAY. 

I ask not now for gold to gild 

With mocking shine a weary frame ; 

The yearning of the mind is stilled — 
I ask not now for Fame. 

A rose-cloud, dimly seen above, 
Melting in heaven's blue depths away- 

O ! sweet, fond dream of human Love ! 
For thee I may not pray. 



108 MISCELLANEOUS. 

But, bowed in lowliness of mind, 
I make my humble wishes known — 

I only ask a will resigned, 
O, Father, to thine own ! 

To-day, beneath thy chastening eye, 
I crave alone for peace and rest, 

Submissive in thy hand to lie, 
And feel that it is best. 

A marvel seems the Universe, 
A miracle our Life and Death ; 

A mystery which 1 cannot pierce, 
Around, above, beneath. 

In vain I task my aching brain, 
In vain the sage's thought I scan ; 

I only feel how weak and vain, 
How poor and blind, is man. 

And now my spirit sighs for home, 
And longs for light whereby to see, 

And, like a weary child, would come, 
O, Father, unto Thee ! 

Though oft, like letters traced on sand, 
My weak resolves have passed away, 

In mercy lend thy helping hand 
Unto my prayer to-day ! 



OUR STATE. 

The South-land boasts its teeming cane, 
The prairied West its heavy grain, 
And sunset's radiant gates unfold 
On rising marts and sands of gold 1 



all's well. 109 

Rough, bleak and hard, our little State 
Is scant of soil, of limits strait ; 
Her yellow sands are sands alone, 
Her only mines are ice and stone ! 

From Autumn frost to April rain, 
Too long her winter woods complain ; 
From budding flower to falling leaf, 
Her summer time is all too brief. 

Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands, 
And wintry hills, the school-house stands, 
And what her rugged soil denies, 
The harvest of the mind supplies. 

The riches of the commonwealth 

Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health • 

And more to her than gold or grain, 

The cunning hand and cultured brain. 

For well she keeps her ancient stock, 
The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock ; 
And still maintains, with milder laws, 
And clearer light, the Good Old Cause ! 

Nor heeds the sceptic's puny hands, 

While near her school the church-spire stands ; 

Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule, 

While near her church-spire stands the school ! 



ALL'S WELL. 

The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake 

Our thirsty souls with rain ; 
The blow most dreaded falls to break 

From off our limbs a chain ; 



110 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And wrongs of man to man but make 

The love of God more plain. 
As through the shadowy lens of even 
The eye looks farthest into heaven, 
On gleams of star and depths of blue 
The glaring sunshine never knew ! 



SEED TIME AND HARVEST. 

As o'er his furrowed fields which lie 
Beneath a coldly-dropping sky, 
Yet chill with winter's melted snow, 
The husbandman goes forth to sow ; 

Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast 
The ventures of thy seed we cast, 
And trust to warmer sun and rain, 
To swell the germ, and fill the grain. 

Who calls thy glorious service hard ? 
Who deems it not its own reward ? 
Who, for its trials, counts it less 
A cause of praise and thankfulness ? 

It may not be our lot to wield 
The sickle in the ripened field ; 
Nor ours to hear, on summer eves, 
The reaper's song among the sheaves ; 

Yet where our duty's task is wrought 
In unison with God's great thought, 
The near and future blend in one, 
And whatsoe'er is willed is done ! 

And ours the grateful service whence 
Comes, day by day, the recompense ; 



Ill 



The hope, the trust, the purpose stayed, 
The fountain and the noonday shade. 

And were this life the utmost span, 
The only end and aim of man, 
Better the toil of fields like these 
Than waking dream and slothful ease. 

But life, though falling like our grain, 
Like that revives and springs again ; 
And, early called, how blest are they 
Who wait in heaven their harvest-day ! 



TO A. K. 

ON RECEIVING A BASKET OF SEA MOSSES. 

Thanks for thy gift 
Of ocean flowers, 
Born where the golden drift 
Of the slant sunshine falls 
Down the green, tremulous walls 
Of water, to the cool, still coral bowers, 
Where, under rainbows of perpetual showers, 
God's gardens of the deep 
His patient angels keep ; 
Gladdening the dim, strange solitude 

With fairest forms and hues, and thus 
Forever teaching us 
The lesson which the many-colored skies, 
The flowers, and leaves, and painted butterflies, 
The deer's branched antlers, the gay bird that flinga 
The tropic sunshine from its golden wings, 
The brightness of the human countenance, 
Its play of smiles, the magic of a glance, 



112 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Forevermore repeat, 
In varied tones and sweet, 
That beauty, in and of itself, is good. 

O, kind and generous friend, o'er whom 
The sunset hues of Time are cast, 
Painting, upon the overpast 
And scattered clouds of noonday sorrow, 
The promise of a fairer morrow, 
An earnest of the better life to come ; 
The binding of the spirit broken, 
The warning to the erring spoken, 

The comfort of the sad, 
The eye to see, the hand to cull 
Of common things the beautiful, 

The absent heart made glad 
By simple gift or graceful token 
Of love it needs as daily food, 
All own one Source, and all are good ! 
Hence, tracking sunny cove and reach, 
Where spent waves glimmer up the beach, 
And toss their gifts of weed and shell 
From foamy curve and combing swell, 
No unbefitting task was thine 

To weave these flowers so soft and fair 
In unison with his design, 

Who loveth beauty everywhere ; 
And makes in every zone and clime, 

In ocean and in upper air, 
"All things beautiful in their time." 

For not alone in tones of awe and power 

He speaks to man ; 
The cloudy horror of the thunder-shower 
His rainbows span ; 
And, where the caravan 
Winds o'er the desert, leaving, as in air 
The crane-flock leaves, no trace of passage there. 
He gives the weary eye 



TO A. K. 113 

The palm-leaf shadow for the hot noon hours, 
And on its branches dry 
Calls out the acacia's flowers ; 
And, where the dark shaft pierces down 

Beneath the mountain roots, 
Seen by the miner's lamp alone, 
The star-like crystal snoots ; 
So, where, the winds and waves below, 
The coral-branched gardens grow, 
His climbing weeds and mosses show, 
Like foliage, on each stony bough, 
Of varied hues more strangely gay 
Than forest leaves in autumn's day; — 
Thus evermore, 
On sky, and wave, and shore, 
An all-pervading beauty seems to say : 
God's love and power are one ; and they, 
Who, like the thunder of a sultry day, 
Smite to restore, 
And they, who, like the gentle wind, uplift 
The petals of the dew- wet flowers, and drift 

Their perfume on the air, 
Alike may serve Him, each, with their own gift, 
Making their lives a prayer ! 



THE 

CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS, 

AND 

OTHER POEMS. 
1852. 



THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. 

•' I DO believe, and yet, in grief, 
I pray for help to unbelief ; 
For needful strength aside to lay 
The daily cumberings of my way. 

" I'm sick at heart of craft and cant, 
Sick of the crazed enthusiast's rant, 
Profession's smooth hypocrisies, 
And creeds of iron, and lives of ease. 

" I ponder o'er the sacred word, 

I read the record of our Lord ; 

And, weak and troubled, envy them 

Who touched his seamless garment's hem ; — 

" Who saw the tears of love he wept 
Above the grave where Lazarus slept ; 
And heard, amidst the shadows dim 
Of Olivet, his evening hymn. 

" How blessed the swine-herd's low estate, 
The beggar crouching at the gate, 
The leper loathly and abhorred, 
Whose eyes of flesh beheld the Lord ! 

" O, sacred soil his sandals pressed ! 
Sweet fountains of his noonday rest ! 
O, light and air of Palestine, 
Impregnate with his life divine ! 

" 0, bear me thither ! Let me look 
On Siloa's pool, and Kedron's brook, — 
Kneel at Gethsemane, and by 
Gennesaret walk, before I die I 



118 THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. 

" Methinks this cold and northern night 
Would melt before that Orient light ; 
And, wet by Hermon's dew and rain, 
My childhood's faith revive again ! " 

So spake my friend, one autumn day, 
Where the still river slid away 
Beneath us, and above the brown 
Red curtains of the woods shut down. 

Then said I, — for I could not brook 
The mute appealing of his look, — 
" I, too, am weak, and faith is small, 
And blindness happeneth unto all. 

" Yet, sometimes glimpses on my sight, 
Through present wrong, the eternal right ; 
And, step by step, since time began, 
I see the steady gain of man : 

" That all of good the past hath had 
Remains to make our own time glad, — 
Our common daily life divine, 
And every land a Palestine. 

" Thou weariest of thy present state ; 
What gain to thee time's holiest date ? 
The doubter now perchance had been 
As High Priest or as Pilate then ! 

" What thought Ghorazin's scribes ? What faith 
In Him had Nam and Nazareth ? 
Of the few followers whom He led, 
One sold him, — all forsook and fled. 

" O, friend ! we need nor rock nor sand, 
Nor storied stream of Morning-Land ; 
The heavens are glassed in Merrimack, — 
What more could Jordan render back ? 



THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. I 

" We lack but open eye and ear 
To find the Orient's marvels here ; — 
The still small voice in autumn's hush, 
Yon maple wood the burning bush. 

" For still the new transcends the old, 
In signs and tokens manifold ; — 
Slaves rise up men ; the olive waves 
With roots deep set in battle graves ! 

" Through the harsh noises of our day 
A low, sweet prelude finds its way ; 
Through clouds of doubt, and creeds of fear, 
A light is breaking, calm and clear. 

" That song of Love, now low and far, 
Ere long shall swell from star to star ! 
That light, the breaking day, which tips 
The golden-spired Apocalypse ! " 

Then, when my good friend shook his head, 
And, sighing, sadly smiled, I said : 
" Thou mind'st me of a story told 
In rare Bernardin's leaves of gold." *% 

And, while the slanted sunbeams wove 
The shadows of the frost-stained grove, 
And, picturing all, the river ran 
O'er cloud and wood, I thus began : 



In Mount Valerien's chestnut wood 
The Chapel of the Hermits stood ; 
And thither, at the close of day, 
Came two old pilgrims, worn and gray. 

One, whose impetuous youth defied 
The storms of Baikal's wintry side, 
And mused and dreamed where tropic day 
Flamed o'er his lost Virginia's bay. 



120 THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. 

His simple tale of love and woe 
All hearts had melted, high or low ; — 
A blissful pain, a sweet distress, 
Immortal in its tenderness. 

Yet, while above his charmed page 
Beat quick the young heart of his age, 
He walked amidst the crowd unknown, 
A sorrowing old man, strange and lone. 

A homeless, troubled age, — the gray 
Pale setting of a weary day ; 
Too dull his ear for voice of praise, 
Too sadly worn his brow for bays. 

Pride, lust of power and glory, slept ; 
Yet still his heart its young dream kept ; 
And, wandering like the deluge-dove, 
Still sought the resting-place of love. v 

And, mateless, childless, envied more 
The peasant's welcome from his door, 
By smiling eyes at eventide, 
Than kingly gifts or lettered pride. 

Until, in place of wife and child, 
All-pitying Nature on him smiled, 
And gave to him the golden keys 
To all her inmost sanctities. 

Mild Druid of her wood-paths dim ! 
She laid her great heart bare to him, 
Its loves and sweet accords ; — he saw 
The beauty of her perfect law. 

The language of her signs he knew, 
What notes her cloudy clarion blew ; 
The rhythm of autumn's forest dyes, 
The hymn of sunset's painted skies. 



THE CHAPEL OP THE HERMITS. 121 

And thus he seemed to hear the song 
Which swept, of old, the stars along ; 
And to his eyes the earth once more 
Its fresh and primal beauty wore. 

Who sought with him, from summer air, 
And field and wood, a balm for care ; 
And bathed in light of sunset skies 
His tortured nerves and weary eyes ? 

His fame on all the winds had flown ; 
His words had shaken crypt and throne ; 
Like fire, on camp and court and cell 
They dropped, and kindled as they fell. 

Beneath the pomps of state, below 
The mitred juggler's masque and show, 
A prophecy — a vague hope — ran 
His burning thought from man to man. 

For peace or rest too well he saw 
The fraud of priests, the wrong of law ; 
And felt how hard, between the two, 
Their breath of pain the millions drew. 

A prophet-utterance, strong and wild, 
The weakness of an un weaned child, 
A sun-bright hope for human kind, 
And self-despair, in him combined. 

He loathed the false, yet lived not true 
To half the glorious truths he knew ; 
The doubt, the discord, and the sin, 
He mourned without, he felt within. 

Untrod by him the path he showed, 
Sweet pictures on his easel glowed 
Of simple faith, and loves of home, 
And virtue's golden days to come. 



122 THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. 

But weakness, shame, and folly, made 
The foil to all his pen portrayed ; 
Still, where his dreamy splendors shone, 
The shadow of himself was thrown. 

Lord, what is man, whose thought, at times, 
Up to thy seven-fold brightness climbs, 
While still his grosser instinct clings 
To earth, like other creeping things ! 

So rich in words, in acts so mean ; 

So high, so low ; chance-swung between 

The foulness of the penal pit 

And Truth's clear sky, millennium-lit ! 

Yain pride of star-lent genius ! — vain 
Quick fancy and creative brain, 
Unblest by prayerful sacrifice, 
Absurdly great, or weakly wise ! 

Midst yearnings for a truer life, 
Without were fears, within was strife ; 
And still his wayward act denied 
The perfect good for which he sighed. 

The love he sent forth void returned ; 

The fame that crowned him scorched and burned 

Burning, yet cold and drear and lone, — 

A fire-mount in a frozen zone ! 

Like that the gray-haired sea-king passed, 14 
Seen southward from his sleety mast, 
About whose brows of changeless frost 
A wreath of flame the wild winds tossed. 

Far round the mournful beauty played 
Of lambent light and purple shade, 
Lost on the fixed and dumb despair 
Of frozen earth and sea and air ! 



THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. 123 

A man apart, unknown, unloved 
By those whose wrongs his soul had moved, 
He bore the ban of Church and State, 
The good man's fear, the bigot's hate ! 

Forth from the city's noise and throng, 
Its pomp and shame, its sin and wrong, 
The twain that summer day had strayed 
To Mount Valerien's chestnut shade. 

To them the green fields and the wood 
Lent something of their quietude, 
And golden-tinted sunset seemed 
Prophetical of all they dreamed. 

The hermits from their simple cares 
The bell was calling home to prayers, 
And, listening to its sound, the twain 
Seemed lapped in childhood's trust again. 

Wide open stood the chapel door ; 

A sweet old music, swelling o'er 

Low prayerful murmurs, issued thence, — 

The Litanies of Providence ! 

Then Rousseau spake : — " Where two or three 
In his name meet, He there will be ! " 
And then, in silence, on their knees 
They sank beneath the chestnut-trees. 

As to the blind returning light, 
As daybreak to the Arctic night, 
Old faith revived : the doubts of years 
Dissolved in reverential tears. 

That gush of feeling overpast, 
" Ah me ! " Bernardin sighed at last, 
" I would thy bitterest foes could see 
Thy heart as it is seen of me ! 



124 THE CHAPEL OP THE HERMITS. 

" No church of God hast thou denied ; 
Thou hast but spurned in scorn aside 
A base and hollow counterfeit, 
Profaning the pure name of it ! 

" With dry dead moss and marish weeds 
His fire the western herdsman feeds, 
And greener from the ashen plain 
The sweet spring grasses rise again. 

" Nor thunder-peal nor mighty wind 
Disturb the solid sky behind; 
And through the cloud the red bolt rends 
The calm, still smile of Heaven descends ! 

" Thus through the world, like bolt and blast, 
And scourging fire, thy words have passed. 
Clouds break, — the steadfast heavens remain ; 
Weeds burn, — the ashes feed the grain ! 

" But whoso strives with wrong may find 
Its touch pollute, its darkness blind ; 
And learn, as latent fraud is shown 
In others' faith, to doubt his own. 

" With dream and falsehood, simple trust 
And pious hope we tread in dust ; 
Lost the calm faith in goodness, — lost 
The baptism of the Pentecost ! 

" Alas ! — the blows for error meant 
Too oft on truth itself are spent, 
As through the false and vile and base 
Looks forth her sad, rebuking face. 

" Not ours the Theban's charmed life ; 
We come not scathless from the strife ! 
The Python's coil about us clings, 
The trampled Hydra bites and stings ! 



THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. 125 

" Meanwhile, the sport of seeming chance, 
The plastic shapes of circumstance, 
What might have been we fondly guess, 
If earlier born, or tempted less. 

" And thou, in these wild, troubled days, 
Misjudged alike in blame and praise, 
Unsought and undeserved the same 
The sceptic's praise, the bigot's blame ; — 

" I cannot doubt, if thou had'st been 
Among the highly-favored men 
Who walked on earth with Fenelon, 
He would have owned thee as his son ; 

" And, bright with wings of cherubim 
Visibly waving over him, 
Seen through his life, the church had seemed 
All that its old confessors dreamed." 

" I would have been," Jean Jaques replied, 
" The humblest servant at his side, 
Obscure, unknown, content to see 
How beautiful man's life may be ! 

" O, more than thrice-blest relic, more 
Than solemn rite or sacred lore, 
The holy life of one who trod 
The foot-marks of the Christ of God ! 

" Amidst a blinded world he saw 

The oneness of the Dual law ; 

That Heaven's sweet peace on Earth began, 

And God was loved through love of man. 

" He lived the Truth which reconciled 
The strong man Reason, Faith the child: 
In him belief and act were one, 
The homilies of duty done ! " 



126 THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. 

So speaking, through the twilight gray 
The two old pilgrims went their way. 
What seeds of life that day were sown, 
The heavenly watchers knew alone. 

Time passed, and Autumn came to fold 
Green Summer in her brown and gold : 
Time passed, and Winter's tears of snow 
Dropped on the grave-mound of Rousseau ! 

" The tree remaineth where it fell, 
The pained on earth is pained in hell ! " 
So priestcraft from its altars cursed 
The mournful doubts its falsehood nursed. 

Ah ! well of old the Psalmist prayed, 
" Thy hand, not man's, on me be laid ! " 
Earth frowns below, Heaven weeps above, 
And man is hate, but God is love ! 

No Hermits now the wanderer sees, 
Nor chapel with its chestnut-trees ; 
A morning dream, a tale that's told, 
The wave of change o'er all has rolled. 

Yet lives the lesson of that day ; 
And from its twilight cool and gray 
Comes up a low, sad whisper : — " Make 
The truth thine own, for truth's own sake, 

" Why wait to see in thy brief span 
its perfect flower and fruit in man ? 
No saintly touch can save ; no balm 
Of healing hath the martyr's palm. 

" Midst soulless forms, and false pretence 
Of spiritual pride and pampered sense, 
A voice saith, ' What is that to thee ? 
Be true thyself, and follow Me ! ' 



THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. 127 

" In days when throne and altar heard 
The wanton's wish, the bigot's word, 
And pomp of state and ritual show 
Scarce hid the loathsome death below, — 

11 Midst fawning priests and courtiers foul, 
The losel swarm of crown and cowl, 
White-robed walked Francois Fenelon, 
Stainless as Uriel in the sun ! 

" Yet in his time the stake blazed red, 
The poor were eaten up like bread ; 
Men knew him not : his garment's hem 
No healing virtue had for them. 

" Alas ! no present saint we find ; 
The white cymar gleams far behind, 
Kevealed in outline vague, sublime, 
Through telescopic mists of time ! 

" Trust not in man with passing breath, 
But in the Lord, old Scripture saith ; 
The truth which saves thou may'st not blend 
With false professor, faithless friend. 

" Search thine own heart. What paineth thee 
In others in thyself may be ; 
All dust is frail, all flesh is weak ; 
Be thou the true man thou dost seek ! 

" Where now with pain thou treadest, trod 
The whitest of the saints of God ! 
To show thee where their feet were set, 
The light which led them shineth yet. 

" The foot-prints of the life divine, 
Which marked their path, remain in thine ; 
And that great Life, transfused in theirs, 
Awaits thy faith, thy love, thy prayers ! " 



128 THE CHAPEL OF THE HERMITS. 

A lesson which I well may heed, 
A word of fitness to my need ; 
So from that twilight cool and gray 
Still saith a voice, or seems to say. 



"We rose, and slowly homeward turned, 
While down the west the sunset burned ; 
And, in its light, hill, wood, and tide, 
And human forms, seemed glorified. 

The village homes transfigured stood, 
And purple bluffs, whose belting wood 
Across the waters leaned to hold 
The yellow leaves like lamps of gold. 

Then spake my friend : — " Thy words are true 
Forever old, forever new, 
These home-seen splendors are the same 
Which over Eden's sunsets came. 

" To these bowed heavens let wood and hill 
Lift voiceless praise and anthems still; 
Fall, warm with blessing, over them, 
Light of the New Jerusalem ! 

" Flow on, sweet river, like the stream 
Of John's Apocalyptic dream ! 
This mapled ridge shall Horeb be, 
Yon green-banked lake our Galilee ! 

" Henceforth my heart shall sigh no more 
For olden time and holier shore ; 
God's love and blessing, then and there, 
Are now and here and everywhere." 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



QUESTIONS OF LIFE. 

And the angel that was sent unto me, whose name was Uriel, 
gave me an answer, and said, 

" Thy heart hath gone too far in this world, and thinkest thou 
to comprehend the way of the Most High ? " 

Then said I, " Yea, my Lord." 

Then said he unto me, " Go thy way, weigh me the weight of 
the fire, or measure me the blast of the wind, or call me again 
the day that is past " — 2 Esdras, chap. ir. 

A bending staff I would not break, 
A feeble faith I would not shake, 
Nor even rashly pluck away 
The error which some truth may stay, 
Whose loss might leave the soul without 
A shield against the shafts of doubt. 

And yet, at times, when over all 

A darker mystery seems to fall, 

(May God forgive the child of dust, 

Who seeks to know, where Faith should trust /) 

I raise the questions, old and dark, 

Of Uzdom's tempted patriarch, 

And, speech-confounded, build again 

The baffled tower of Shinar's plain. 

I am : how little more I know ! 
Whence came I ? Whither do I go V 
A centred self, which feels and is ; 



132 MISCELLANEOUS. 

A cry between the silences ; 
A shadow-birth of clouds at strife 
With sunshine on the hills of life ; 
A shaft from Nature's quiver cast 
Into the Future from the Past ; 
Between the cradle and the shroud, 
A meteor's flight from cloud to cloud. 

Thorough the vastness, arching all, 

I see the great stars rise and fall, 

The rounding seasons come and go, 

The tided oceans ebb and flow ; 

The tokens of a central force, 

Whose circles, in their widening course, 

O'erlap and move the universe ; 

The workings of the law whence springs 

The rhythmic harmony of things, 

Which shapes in earth the darkling spar, 

And orbs in heaven the morning star. 

Of all I see, in earth and sky, — 

Star, flower, beast, bird, — what part have I ? 

This conscious life, — is it the same 

Which thrills the universal frame, 

Whereby the caverned crystal shoots, 

And mounts the sap from forest roots, 

Whereby the exiled wood-bird tells 

When Spring makes green her native dells ? 

How feels the stone the pang ofbirth, 

Which brings its spaikling prism forth ? 

The forest>-tree the throb which gives 

The life-blood to its new-born leaves ? 

Do bird and blossom feel, like me, 

Life's many-folded mystery, — 

The wonder which it is to be ? 

Or stand I severed and distinct, 

From Nature's chain of life unlinked ? 

Allied to all, yet not the less 

Prisoned in separate consciousness, 

Alone o'erburdened with a sense 

Of life, and cause, and consequence ? 



QUESTIONS OF LIFE. 133 

In vain to me the Sphinx propounds 
The riddle of her sights and sounds ; 
Back still the vaulted mystery gives 
The echoed question it receives. 
What sings the brook ? What oracle 
Is in the pine-tree's organ swell ? 
What may the wind's low burden be ? 
The meaning of the moaning sea ? 
The hieroglyphics of the stars ? 
Or clouded sunset's crimson bars ? 
I vainly ask, for mocks my skill 
The trick of Nature's cipher still. 

I turn from Nature unto men, 

I ask the stylus and the pen ; 

What sang the bards of old ? What meant 

The prophets of the Orient ? 

The rolls of buried Egypt, hid 

In painted tomb and pyramid ? 

What mean Idumea's arrowy lines, 

Or dusk Elora's monstrous signs V 

How speaks the primal thought of man 

From the grim carvings of Copan ? 

Where rests the secret ? Where the keys 

Of the old death-bolted mysteries ? 

Alas ! the dead retain their trust ; 

Dust hath no answer from the dust. 

The great enigma still unguessed, 

Unanswered the eternal quest ; 

I gather up the scattered rays 

Of wisdom in the early days, 

Faint gleams and broken, like the light 

Of meteors in a northern night, 

Betraying to the darkling earth 

The unseen sun which gave them birth ; 

I listen to the sibyl's chant, 

The voice of priest and hierophant ; 

I know what Indian Kreeshna saith, 



134 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And what of life and what of death 
The demon taught to Socrates ; 
And what, beneath his garden-trees 
Slow pacing, with a dream-like tread, 
The solemn-thoughted Plato said ; 
Nor lack I tokens, great or small, 
Of God's clear light in each and all, 
While holding with more dear regard 
The scroll of Hebrew seer and bard, 
The starry pages promise-lit 
With Christ's Evangel over-writ, 
Thy miracle of life and death, 
O, holy one of Nazareth ! 

On Aztec ruins, gray and lone, 

The circling serpent coils in stone, — 

Type of the endless and unknown ; 

Whereof we seek the clue to find, 

With groping fingers of the blind ! 

Forever sought, and never found, 

We trace that serpent^symbol round 

Our resting-place, our starting bound ! 

O, thriftlessness of dream and guess ! 

O, wisdom which is foolishness ! 

Why idly seek from outward things 

The answer inward silence brings ; 

Why stretch beyond our proper sphere 

And age, for that which lies so near ? 

Why climb the far-off hills with pain, 

A nearer view of heaven to gain ? 

In lowliest depths of bosky dells 

The hermit Contemplation dwells. 

A fountain's pine-hung slope his seat, 

And lotus-twined his silent feet, 

Whence, piercing heaven, with screened sight, 

He sees at noon the stars, whose light 

Shall glorify the coming night. 

Here let me pause, my quest forego ; 



QUESTIONS OF LIFE. 135 

Enough for me to feel and know 
That he in whom the cause and end, 
The past and future, meet and blend, — 
Who, girt with his immensities, 
Our vast and star-hung system sees, 
Small as the clustered Pleiades, — 
Moves not alone the heavenly quires, 
But waves the spring-time's grassy spires, 
Guards not archangel feet alone, 
But deigns to guide and keep my own ; 
Speaks not alone the words of fate 
Which worlds destroy, and worlds create, 
But whispers in my spirit's ear, 
In tones of love, or warning fear, 
A language none beside may hear. 

To Him, from wanderings long and wild, 

I come, an over-wearied child, 

In cool and shade his peace to find, 

Like dew-fall settling on my mind. 

Assured that all I know is best, 

And humbly trusting for the rest, 

I turn from Fancy's cloud-built scheme, 

Dark creed, and mournful eastern dream 

Of power, impersonal and cold, 

Controlling all, itself controlled, 

Maker and slave of iron laws, 

Alike the subject and the cause ; 

From vain philosophies, that try 

The seven-fold gates of mystery, 

And, baffled ever, babble still, 

Word-prodigal of fate and will ; 

From Nature, and her mockery, Art, 

And book and speech of men apart, 

To the still witness in my heart ; 

With reverence waiting to behold 

His Avatdr of love untold, 

The Eternal Beauty new and old! 



186 MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE PRISONERS OF NAPLES. 

I have been thinking of the victims bound 

In Naples, dying for the lack of air 

And sunshine, in their close, damp cells of pain. 

Where hope is not, and innocence in vain 

Appeals against the torture and the chain ! 

Unfortunates ! whose crime it was to share 

Our common love of freedom, and to dare, 

In its behalf, Rome's harlot triple-crowned, 

And her base pander, the most hateful thing 

Who upon Christian or on Pagan ground 

Makes vile the old heroic name of king. 

O, God most merciful ! Father just and kind ! 

Whom man hath bound let thy right hand unbind 

Or, if thy purposes of good behind 

Their ills lie hidden, let the sufferers find 

Strong consolations ; leave them not to doubt 

Thy providential care, nor yet without 

The hope which all thy attributes inspire, 

That not in vain the martyr's robe of fire 

Is worn, nor the sad prisoner's fretting chain ; 

Since all who suffer for thy truth send forth, 

Electrical, with every throb of pain, 

Unquenchable sparks, thy own baptismal rain 

Of fire and spirit over all the earth, 

Making the dead in slavery live again. 

Let this great hope be with them, as they lie 

Shut from the light, the greenness, and the sky, — 

From the cool waters and the pleasant breeze, 

The smell of flowers, and shade of summer trees ; 

Bound with the felon lepers, whom disease 

And sins abhorred make loathsome ; let them 

share 
Pellico's faith, Foresti's strength to bear 
Years of unutterable torment, stern and still, 
As the chained Titan victor through his will ! 



THE PRISONERS OF NAPLES. 137 

Comfort them with thy future ; let them see 
The day-dawn of Italian liberty ; 
For that, with all good things, is hid with Thee, 
And, perfect in thy thought, awaits its time to be ! 

I, who have spoken for freedom at the cost 
Of some weak friendships, or some paltry prize 
Of name or place, and more than I have lost 
Have gained in wider reach of sympathies, 
And free communion with the good and wise, — 
May God forbid that I should ever boast 
Such easy self-denial, or repine 
That the strong pulse of health no more is mine ; 
That, overworn at noonday, I must yield 
To other hands the gleaning of the field, — 
A tired on-looker through the day's decline. 
For blest beyond deserving still, and knowing 
That kindly Providence its care is showing 
In the withdrawal as in the bestowing, 
Scarcely I dare for more or less to pray. 
Beautiful yet for me this autumn day 
Melts on its sunset hills ; and, far away, 
For me the Ocean lifts its solemn psalm, 
To me the pine-woods whisper ; and for me 
Yon river, winding through its vales of calm, 
By greenest banks, with asters purple-starred, 
And gentian bloom and golden-rod made gay, 
Flows down in silent gladness to the sea, 
Like a pure spirit to its great reward ! 

Nor lack I friends, long-tried and near and dear, 
Whose love is round me like this atmosphere, 
Warm, soft and golden. For such gifts to me, 
What shall I render, O my God, to thee ? 
Let me not dwell upon my lighter share 
Of pain and ill that human life must bear ; 
Save me from selfish pining ; let my heart, 
Drawn from itself in sympathy, forget 
The bitter longings of a vain regret, 



138 MISCELLANEOUS. 

The anguish of its own peculiar smart. 
Remembering others, as I have to-day, 
In their great sorrows, let me live alway 
Not for myself alone, but have a part, 
Such as a frail and erring spirit may, 
In love which is of Thee, and which indeed Thou 
art! 



MOLOCH IN STATE STREET. 

The moon has set : while yet the dawn 

Breaks cold and gray, 
Between the midnight and the morn 

Bear off your prey ! 

On, swift and still ! — the conscious street 

Is panged and stirred ; 
Tread light ! — that fall of serried feet 

The dead have heard ! 

The first drawn blood of Freedom's veins 

Gushed where ye tread ; 
Lo ! through the dusk the martyr-stains 

Blush darkly red ! 

Beneath the slowly waning stars 

And whitening day, 
What stern and awful presence bars 

That sacred way ? 

What faces frown upon ye, dark 

With shame and pain ? 
Come these from Plymouth's Pilgrim bark ? 

Is that young Vane ? 

Who, dimly beckoning, speed ye on 
With mocking cheer ? 



MOLOCH IN STATE STREET. 139 

Lo ! spectral Andros, Hutchinson, 
And Gage, are here ! 

For ready mart or favoring blast 

Through Moloch's fire 
Flesh of his flesh, unsparing, passed 

The Tyrian sire. 

Ye make that ancient sacrifice 

Of Man to Gain, 
Your traffic thrives, where Freedom dies, 

Beneath the chain. 

Ye sow to-day, your harvest scorn 

And hate, is near ; 
How, think ye freemen, mountain-born, 

The tale will hear ? 

Thank God ! our mother State can yet 

Her fame retrieve ; 
To you and to your children let 

The scandal cleave. 

Chain Hall and Pulpit, Court and Press, 

Make gods of gold ; 
Let honor, truth, and manliness, 

Like wares be sold. 

Your hoards are great, your walls are strong, 

But God is just ; 
The gilded chambers built by wrong 

Invite the rust. 

What ! know ye not the gains of Crime 

Are dust and dross ; 
Its ventures on the waves of time 

Foredoom'd to loss ! 

And still the Pilgrim State remains 
What she hath been ; 



140 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Her inland hills, her seaward plains, 
Still nurture men ! 

Nor wholly lost the fallen mart — 

Her olden blood 
Through many a free and generous heart 

Still pours its flood. 

That brave old blood, quick-flowing yet, 

Shall know no check, _ 
Till a free people's foot is set 

On Slavery's neck. 

Even now, the peal of bell and gun, 

And nills aflame, 
Tell of the first great triumph won 

In Freedom's name. 15 

The long night dies : the welcome gray 

Of dawn we see ; 
Speed up the heavens thy perfect day, 

God of the free ! 
1851. 



THE PEACE OF EUROPE— 1852. 

" Great peace in Europe ! Order reigna 
From Tiber's hills to Danube's plains ! " 
So say her kings and priests ; so say 
The lying prophets of our day. 

Go lay to earth a listening ear ; 
The tramp of measured marches hear, — 
The rolling of the cannon's wheel, 
The shotted musket's murderous peal, 
The night alarm, the sentry's call, 



THE PEACE OF EUROPE — 1852. 141 

The quick-eared spy in hut and hall ! 
From Polar sea and tropic fen 
The dying-groans of exiled men ! 
The bolted cell, the galley's chains, 
The scaffold smoking with its stains ! 
Order — the hush of brooding slaves ! 
Peace — in the dungeon-vaults and graves ! 

O, Fisher ! of the world-wide net, 

With meshes in all waters set, 

Whose fabled keys of heaven and hell 

Bolt hard the patriot's prison-cell, 

And open wide the banquet-hall, 

Where kings and priests hold carnival ! 

Weak vassal tricked in royal guise, 

Boy Kaiser with thy lip of lies ; 

Base gambler for Napoleon's crown, 

Barnacle on his dead renown ! 

Thou, Bourbon Neapolitan, 

Crowned scandal, loathed of God and man ; 

And thou, fell Spider of the North ! 

Stretching thy giant feelers forth, 

Within whose web the freedom dies 

Of nations eaten up like flies ! 

Speak, Prince and Kaiser, Priest and Czar ! 

If this be Peace, pray what is War ? 

White Angel of the Lord ! unmeet 
That soil accursed for thy pure feet. 
Never in Slavery's desert flows 
The fountain of thy charmed repose ; 
No tyrant's hand thy chaplet weaves 
Of lilies and of olive-leaves ; 
Not with the wicked shalt thou dwell, 
Thus saith the Eternal Oracle ; 
Thy home is with the pure and free ! 
Stern herald of thy better day, 
Before thee, to prepare thy way, 
The Baptist Shade of Liberty, 



142 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Gray, scarred and hairy-robed, must press 

With bleeding feet the wilderness ! 

O ! that its voice might pierce the ear 

Of princes, trembling while they hear 

A cry as of the Hebrew seer : 

Repent ! God's kingdom draweth near ! 



WORDSWORTH. 

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF HIS MEMOIRS. 

Dear friends, who read the world aright, 
And in its common forms discern 

A beauty and a harmony 
The many never learn ! 

Kindred in soul of him who found 
In simple flower and leaf and stone 

The impulse of the sweetest lays 
Our Saxon tongue has known, — 

Accept this record of a life 

As sweet and pure, as calm and good, 
As a long day of blandest June 

In green field and in wood. 

How welcome to our ears, long pained 
By strife of sect and party noise, 

The brook-like murmur of his song 
Of nature's simple joys ! 

The violet by its mossy stone, 

The primrose by the river's brim, 

And chance-sown daffodil, have found 
Immortal life through him. 



to . 143 

The sunrise on his breezy lake, 
The rosy tints his sunset brought, 

World-seen, are gladdening all the vales 
And mountain-peaks of thought. 

Art builds on sand ; the works of pride 
And human passion change and fall ; 

But that which shares the life of God 
With Him surviveth all. 



TO 



UNES WRITTEN AFTER A SUMMER DAY'S EXCURSION. 

Fair Nature's priestesses ! to whom, 
In hieroglyph of bud and bloom, 

Her mysteries are told ; 
Who, wise in lore of wood and mead, 
The seasons' pictured scrolls can read, 

In lessons manifold ! 

Thanks for the courtesy, and gay 
Good humor, which on Washing Day 

Our ill-timed visit bore ; 
Thanks for your graceful oars, which broke 
The morning dreams of Artichoke, 

Along his wooded shore ! 

Varied as varying Nature's ways, 
Sprites of the river, woodland fays, 

Or mountain-nymphs, ye seem ; 
Free-limbed Dianas on the green, 
Loch Katrine's Ellen, or Undine, 

Upon your favorite stream. 

The forms of which the poets told, 
The fair benignities of old, 



144 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Were doubtless such as you ; 
What more than Artichoke the rill 
Of Helicon ? Than Pipe-stave hill 

Arcadia's mountain- view ? 

No sweeter bowers the bee delayed, 
In wild Hymettus' scented shade, 

Than those you dwell among ; 
Snow-flowered azalias, intertwined 
With roses, over banks inclined 

With trembling hare-bells hung 1 

A charmed life unknown to death, 
Immortal freshness Nature hath ; 

Her fabled fount and glen 
Are now and here : Dodona's shrine 
Still murmurs in the wind-swept pine,— 

All is that e'er hath been. 

The Beauty which old Greece or Rome 
Sung, painted, wrought, lies close at home ; 

We need but eye and ear 
In all our daily walks to trace 
The outlines of incarnate grace, 

The hymns of gods to hear ! 



IN PEACE. 

A track of moonlight on a quiet lake, 

Whose small waves on a silver-sanded shore 
Whisper of peace, and with the low winds make 
Such harmonies as keep the woods awake, • 
And listening all night long for their sweet sake 
A green- waved slope of meadow, hovered o'er 
By angel-troops of lilies, swaying light 
On viewless stems, with folded wings of white ; 



BENEDICITE. 145 

A slumberous stretch of mountain-land, far seen 
Where the low westering day, with gold and green, 
Purple and amber, softly blended, fills 
The wooded vales, and melts among the hills ; 
A vine-fringed river, winding to its rest 

On the calm bosom of a stormless sea, 
Bearing alike upon its placid breast, 
"With earthly flowers and heavenly stars impressed, 

The hues of time and of eternity : 

Such are the pictures which the thought of thee, 
O friend, awakeneth, — charming the keen pain 

Of thy departure, and our sense of loss 
Requiting with the fulness of thy gain. 

Lo ! on the quiet grave thy life-borne cross, 
Dropped only at its side, methinks doth shine, 
Of thy beatitude the radiant sign ! 

No sob of grief, no wild lament, be there, 

To break the Sabbath of the holy air ; 

But, in their stead, the silent^breathing prayer 
< )f hearts still waiting for a rest like thine. 
<) spirit redeemed ! Forgive us, if henceforth, 
With sweet and pure similitudes of earth, 

We keep thy pleasant memory freshly green, 
Of love's inheritance a priceless part, 

Which Fancy's self, in reverent awe, is seen 
To paint, forgetful of the tricks of art, 

With pencil dipped alone in colors of the heart 



BENEDICITE. 

God's love and peace be with thee, where 
Soe'er this soft autumnal air 
Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair ! 

Whether through city casements comes 
Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, 
Or, out among the woodland blooms, 

»L. II. 10 



146 MISCELLANEOUS. 

It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face, 
Imparting, in its glad embrace, 
Beauty to beauty, grace to grace ! 

Fair Nature's book together read, 

The old wood-paths that knew our tread, 

The maple shadows overhead, — 



The hills we climbed, the river seen 
By gleams along its deep ravine, — 
All keep thy memory fresh and green. 



Where'er I look, where'er I stray, 
Thy thought goes with me on my way, 
And hence the prayer I breathe to-day ! 

O'er lapse of time and change of scene, 
The weary waste which lies between 
Thyself and me, my heart I lean. 

Thou lack'st not Friendship's spell-word, nor 
The half-unconscious power to draw 
All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law. 

With these good gifts of God is cast 
Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast 
To hold the blessed angels fast. 

If, then, a fervent wish for thee 

The gracious heavens will heed from me, 

What should, dear heart, its burden be ? 

The sighing of a shaken reed — 
What can I more than meekly plead 
The greatness of our common need ? 

God's love — unchanging, pure, and true — 
The Paraclete white-shining through 
His peace — the fall of Hermon's dew I 



PICTURES. 147 



With such a prayer, on this sweet day, 
As thou may'st hear and I may say, 
I greet thee, dearest, far away ! 



PICTURES. 



Light, warmth, and sprouting greenness, and o'er 
all 

Blue, stainless, steel-bright ether, raining down 
Tranquillity upon the deep-hushed town, 
The freshening meadows, and the hill-sides 
brown ; 
Yoice of the west wind from the hills of pine, 
And the brimmed river from its distant fall, 
Low hum of bees, and joyous interlude 
Of bird-songs in the streamlet-skirting wood, — 
Heralds and prophecies of sound and sight, 
Blessed forerunners of the warmth and light, 
Attendant angels to the house of prayer, 

With reverent footsteps keeping pace with 
mine, — 
Once more, through God's great love, with you I 

share 
A morn of resurrection sweet and fair 

As that which saw, of old, in Palestine, 
Immortal Love uprising in fresh bloom 
From the dark night and winter of the tomb ! 
Fifth month, 2d, 1852. 

II. 
White with its sun-bleached dust, the pathway 
winds 
Before me ; dust is on the shrunken grass, 
And on the trees beneath whose boughs I pass ; 
Frail screen against the Hunter of the sky, 



148 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Who, glaring on me with his lidless eye, 

While mounting with his dog-star high and 
higher, 
Ambushed in light intolerable, unbinds 

The burnished quiver of his shafts of fire. 
Between me and the hot fields of his South 
A tremulous glow, as from a furnace-mouth, 
Glimmers and swims before my dazzled sight, 

As if the burning arrows of his ire 
Broke as they fell, and shattered into light . 
Yet on my cheek I feel the Western wind, 
And hear it telling to the orchard trees, 
And to the faint and flower-forsaken bees, 
Tales of fair meadows, green with constant 
streams, 
And mountains rising blue and cool behind, 

Where in moist dells the purple orchis gleams, 
And starred with white the virgin's bower is twined 
So the o'erwearied pilgrim, as he fares 

Along life's summer waste, at times is fanned, 
Even at noontide, by the cool, sweet airs 
Of a serener and a holier land, 
Fresh as the morn, and as the dewfall bland. 
Breath of the blessed Heaven for which we pray, 
Blow from the eternal hills ! — make glad our earthlj 
way ! 
Eighth month, 1852. 



DERNE. 16 

Night on the city of the Moor ! 

On mosque and tomb, and white-walled shore, 

On sea-waves, to whose ceaseless knock 

The narrow harbor-gates unlock, 

On corsair's galley, carack tall, 

And plundered Christian caraval ! 



DERNE. 149 

The sounds of Moslem life are still ; 
No mule-bell tinkles down the hill ; 
Stretched in the broad court of the khan, 
The dusty Bornou caravan 
Lies heaped in slumber, beast and man ; 
The Sheik is dreaming in his tent, 
His noisy Arab tongue o'er-spent; 
The kiosk's glimmering lights are gone, 
The merchant with his wares withdrawn ; 
Kough pillowed on some pirate breast, 
The dancing-girl has sunk to rest; 
And, save where measured footsteps fall 
Along the Bashaw's guarded wall, 
Or where, like some bad dream, the Jew 
Creeps stealthily his quarter through, 
Or counts with fear his golden heaps, 
The City of the Corsair sleeps 1 

But where yon prison long and low 
Stands black against the pale star-glow, 
Chafed by the ceaseless wash of waves, 
There watch and pine the Christian slaves;— 
Bough-bearded men, whose far-off wives 
Wear out with grief their lonely lives ; 
And youth, still Hashing from his eyes 
The clear blue of New England skies, 
A treasured lock of whose soft hair 
Now wakes some sorrowing mother's prayer; 
Or, worn upon some maiden breast, 
Stirs with the loving heart's unrest ! 

A bitter cup each life must drain, 
The groaning earth is cursed with pain, 
And, like the scroll the angel bore 
The shuddering Hebrew seer before, 
O'erwrit alike, without, within, 
"With all the woes which follow sin ; 
But, bitterest of the ills beneath 
Whose load man totters down to death, 



150 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Is that which plucks the regal crown 
Of Freedom from his forehead down, 
And snatches from his powerless hand 
The sceptred sign of self-command, 
Effacing with the chain and rod 
The image and the seal of God ; 
Till from his nature, day by day, 
The manly virtues fall away, 
And leave him naked, blind and mute, 
The godlike merging in the brute ! 

Why mourn the quiet ones who die 
Beneath affection's tender eye, 
Unto their household and their kin 
Like ripened corn-sheaves gathered in ? 
O weeper, from that tranquil sod, 
That holy harvest-home of God, 
Turn to the quick and suffering, — shed 
Thy tears upon the living dead ! 
Thank God above thy dear ones' graves, 
They sleep with Him, — they are not slaves ! 

What dark mass, down the mountain-sides 

Swift-pouring, like a stream divides ? — 

A long, loose, straggling caravan, 

Camel and horse and armed man. 

The moon's low crescent, glimmering o'er 

Its grave of waters to the shore, 

Lights up that mountain cavalcade, 

And glints from gun and spear and blade ; 

Near and more near ! — now o'er them falls 

The shadow of the city walls. 

Hark to the sentry's challenge, drowned 

In the fierce trumpet's charging sound !— 

The rush of men, the musket's peal, 

The short, sharp clang of meeting steel ! 

Vain, Moslem, vain thy lifeblood poured 
So freely on thy foeman's sword ! 



DERNE. 151 

Not to the swift nor to the strong 
The battles of the right belong ; 
For he who strikes for Freedom wears 
The armor of the captive's prayers, 
And Nature proffers to his cause 
The strength of her eternal laws ; 
While he whose arm essays to bind 
And herd with common brutes his kind 
Strives evermore at fearful odds 
With Nature and the jealous gods, 
And dares the dread recoil which late 
Or soon their right shall vindicate. 

'Tis done, — the horned crescent falls ! 

The star-flag flouts the broken walls ! 

Joy to the captive husband ! joy 

To thy sick heart, O brown-locked boy ! 

In sullen wrath the conquered Moor 

Wide open flings your dungeon-door, 

And leaves ye free from cell and chain, 

The owners of yourselves again. 

Dark as his allies desert-born, 

Soiled with the battle's stain, and worn 

With the long marches of his band 

Through hottest wastes of rock and sand, — 

Scorched by the sun and furnace-breath 

Of the red desert's wind of death, 

With welcome words and grasping hands, 

The victor and deliverer stands ! 

The tale is one of distant skies ; 
The dust of half a century lies 
Upon it ; yet its hero's name 
Still lingers on the lips of Fame. 
Men speak the praise of him who gave 
Deliverance to the Moorman's slave, 
Yet dare to brand with shame and crime 
The heroes of our land and time, — 
The self-forgetful ones, who stake 



152 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Home, name and life, for Freedom's sake ! 

God mend his heart who cannot feel 

The impulse of a holy zeal, 

And sees not, with his sordid eyes, 

The beauty of self-sacrifice ! 

Though in the sacred place he stands, 

Uplifting consecrated hands, 

Unworthy are his lips to tell 

Of Jesus' martyr-miracle, 

Or name aright that dread embrace 

Of suffering for a fallen race ! 



ASTR^A. 

" Jove means to settle 

Astraea in her seat again, 

And let down from his golden chain 

An age of better metal." 

Ben Jonson, 1615 

O, poet rare and old ! 

Thy words are prophecies ; 
Forward the age of gold, 

The new Saturnian lies. 

The universal prayer 

And hope are not in vain ; 

Rise, brothers ! and prepare 
The way for Saturn's reign. 

Perish shall all which takes 
From labor's board and can ; 

Perish shall all which makes 
A spaniel of the man ! 

Free from its bonds the mind, 
The body from the rod ; 



INVOCATION. 153 

Broken all chains that bind 
The image of our God. 

Just men no longer pine 

Behind their prison-bars ; 
Through the rent dungeon shine 

The free sun and the stars. 

Earth own, at last, untrod 

By sect, or caste, or clan, 
The fatherhood of God, 

The brotherhood of man ! 

Fraud fail, craft perish, forth 
The money-changers driven, 

And God's will done on earth, 
As now in heaven ! 



INVOCATION. 

Through thy clear spaces, Lord, of old, 
Formless and void the dead earth rolled ; 
Deaf to thy heaven's sweet music, blind 
To the great lights which o'er it shined ; 
No sound, no ray, no warmth, no breath, — 
A dumb despair, a wandering death. 

To that dark, weltering horror came 
Thy spirit, like a subtle flame, — 
A breath of life electrical, 
Awakening and transforming all, 
Till beat and thrilled in every part 
The pulses of a living heart. 

Then knew their bounds the land and sea ; 
Then smiled the bloom of mead and tree ; 



154 MISCELLANEOUS. 

From flower to moth, from beast to man, 
The quick creative impulse ran ; 
And earth, with life from thee renewed, 
Was in thy holy eyesight good. 

As lost and void, as dark and cold 
And formless as that earth of old, — 
A wandering waste of storm and night, 
Midst spheres of song and realms of light,- 
A blot upon thy holy sky, 
Untouched, unwarned of thee, am I. 

O thou who movest on the deep 
Of spirits, wake my own from sleep ! 
Its darkness melt, its coldness warm, 
The lost restore, the ill transform, 
That flower and fruit henceforth may be 
Its grateful offering, worthy thee. 



THE CROSS. 



ON THE DEATH OP RICHARD DILLINGHAM, IN THE NASHVILLE 
PENITENTIARY. 

" The cross, if rightly borne, shall be 
No burden, but support to thee ; " * 
So, moved of old time for our sake, 
The holy monk of Kempen spake. 

Thou brave and true one ! upon whom 
Was laid the cross of martyrdom, 
How didst thou, in thy generous youth, 
Bear witness to this blessed truth ! 

Thy cross of suffering and of shame 
A staff within thy hands became, 

* Thomas k Kempis. Imit Christ. 



155 



In paths where faith alone could see 
The Master's steps supporting thee. 

Thine was the seed-time ; God alone 
Beholds the end of what is sown ; 
Beyond our vision, weak and dim, 
The harvest-time is hid with Him. 

Yet, unforgotten where it lies, 
That seed of generous sacrifice, 
Though seeming on the desert cast, 
Shall rise with bloom and fruit at last. 



EVA. 

Dry the tears for holy Eva, 
With the blessed angels leave her ; 
Of the form so soft and fair 
Give to earth the tender care. 

For the golden locks of Eva 
Let the sunny south-land give hei 
Flowery pillow of repose, — 
Orange-bloom and budding rose. 

In the better home of Eva 
Let the shining ones receive her, 
With the welcome-voiced psalm, 
Harp of gold and waving palm ! 

All is light and peace with Eva ; 
There the darkness cometh never ; 
Tears are wiped, and fetters fall, 
And the Lord is all in all. 

Weep no more for happy Eva, 

Wrong and sin no more shall grieve her ; 



156 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Care and pain and weariness 
Lost in love so measureless. 

Gentle Eva, loving Eva, 
Child confessor, true believer, 
Listener at the Master's knee, 
" Suffer such to come to me." 

O, for faith like thine, sweet Eva, 
Lighting all the solemn river, 
And the blessings of the poor 
Wafting to the heavenly shore ! 



TO FREDRIKA BREMER." 

Seeress of the misty Norland, 
Daughter of the Vikings bold, 

Welcome to the sunny Vineland, 
Which thy fathers sought of old ! 

Soft as flow of Silja's waters, 

When the moon of summer shines, 

Strong as Winter from his mountains 
Roaring through the sleeted pines. 

Heart and ear, we long have listened 

To thy saga, rune and song, 
As a household joy and presence 

We have known and loved thee long 

By the mansion's marble mantel, 
Round the log-walled cabin's hearth, 

Thy sweet thoughts and northern fancies 
Meet and mingle with our mirth. 

And, o'er weary spirits keeping 

Sorrow's nighl>watch, long and chill, 



APRIL. 157 

Shine they like thy sun of summer 
Over midnight vale and hill. 

We alone to thee are strangers, 
Thou our friend and teacher art ; 

Come, and know us as we know thee ; 
Let us meet thee heart to heart ! 

To our homes and household altars 
We, in turn, thy steps would lead, 

As thy loving hand has led us 
O'er the threshold of the Swede. 



APKIL. 

" The spring comes slowly tip this way." 

Chbistabel. 

'T/q the noon of the spring-time, yet never a bird 
In the wind-shaken elm or the maple is heard ; 
For green meadow-grasses wide levels of snow, 
And blowing of drifts where the crocus should 

blow ; 
Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white, 
On south-sloping brook-sides should smile in the 

light, 
O'er the cold winter-beds of their late-waking roots 
The frosty flake eddies, the ice-crystal shoots ; 
And, longing for light, under wind-driven heaps, 
Round the boles of the pine- wood the ground-laurel 

creeps, 
Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers, 
With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst 

into flowers ! 
We wait for thy coming, sweet wind of the south ! 
For the touch of thy light wings, the kiss of thy 

mouth ; 



158 MISCELLANEOUS. 

For the yearly evangel thou bearest from God, 
Resurrection and life to the graves of the sod ! 
Up our long river-valley, for days, have not ceased 
The wail and the shriek of the bitter northeast, — 
Raw and chill, as if winnowed through ices and 

snow, 
All the way from the land of the wild Esquimau, — 
Until all our dreams of the land of the blest, 
Like that red hunter's, turn to the sunny southwest. 
O, soul of the spring-time, its light and its breath, 
Bring warmth to this coldness, bring life to this 

death ; 
Renew the great miracle ; let us behold 
The stone from the mouth of the sepulchre rolled, 
And Nature, like Lazarus, rise, as of old ! 
Let our faith, which in darkness and coldness has 

lain, 
Revive with the warmth and the brightness again, 
And in blooming of flower and budding of tree 
The symbols and types of our destiny see ; 
The life of the spring-time, the life of the whole, 
And as sun to the sleeping earth love to the soul ! 



STANZAS FOR THE TIMES— 1850. 

The evil days have come, — the poor 

Are made a prey ; 
Bar up the hospitable door, 
Put out the fire-lights, point no more 

The wanderer's way. 

For Pity now is crime ; the chain 

Which binds our States 
Is melted at her hearth in twain, 
Is rusted by her tears' soft rain : 

Close up her gates. 



STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. 159 

Our Union, like a glacier stirred 

By voice below, 
Or bell of kine, or wing of bird, 
A beggar's crust, a kindly word 

May overthrow ! 

Poor, whispering tremblers ! — yet we boast 

Our blood and name ; 
Bursting its century-bolted frost, 
Each gray cairn on the Northman's coast 

Cries out for shame ! 

for the open firmament, 

The prairie free, 
The desert hillside, cavern-rent, 
The Pawnee's lodge, the Arab's tent, 

The Bushman's tree ! 

Than web of Persian loom most rare, 

Or soft divan, 
Better the rough rock, bleak and bare, 
Or hollow tree, which man may share 

With suffering man. 

1 hear a voice : " Thus saith the Law, 

Let Love be dumb ; 
Clasping her liberal hands in awe, 
Let sweet-lipped Charity withdraw 

From hearth and home." 

1 hear another voice : " The poor 

Are thine to feed ; 
Turn not the outcast from thy door, 
Nor give to bonds and wrong once more 

Whom God hath freed." 

Dear Lord ! between that law and thee 

No choice remains ; 
Yet not untrue to man's decree. 



160 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Though spurning its rewards, is he 
Who bears its pains. 

Not mine Sedition's trumpet-blast 

And threatening word ; 
I read the lesson of the Past, 
That firm endurance wins at last 

More than the sword. 

O, clear-eyed Faith, and Patience, thou 

So calm and strong ! 
Lend strength to weakness, teach us hoi 
The sleepless eyes of God look through 

This night of wrong ! 



A SABBATH SCENE. 

Scarce had the solemn Sabbath-bell 
Ceased quivering in the steeple, 

Scarce had the parson to his desk 
Walked stately through his people, 

When down the summer shaded street 

A wasted female figure, 
With dusky brow and naked feet, 

Came rushing wild and eager. 

She saw the white spire through the trees. 
She heard the sweet hymn swelling ; 

O, pitying Christ ! a refuge give 
That poor one in thy dwelling ! 

Like a scared fawn before the hounds, 

Right up the aisle she glided, 
While close behind her, whip in hand, 

A lank-haired hunter strided. 



A SABBATH SCENE. 1 

She raised a keen and bitter cry, 
To Heaven and Earth appealing ; — 

Were manhood's generous pulses dead ? 
Had woman's heart no feeling ? 

A score of stout hands rose between 

The hunter and the flying ; 
Age clenched his staff, and maiden eyes 

Flashed tearful, yet defying. 

" Who dares profane this house and day ? " 

Cried out the angry pastor. 
" Why, bless your soul, the wench's a slave. 

And I'm her lord and master ! 

" I've law and gospel on my side, 
And who shall dare refuse me ? " 

Down came the parson, bowing low, 
« My good sir, pray excuse me ! 

" Of course I know your right divine 
To own and work and whip her ; 

Quick, deacon, throw that Polyglott 
Before the wench, and trip her ! " 

Plump dropped the holy tome, and o'er 

Its sacred pages stumbling, 
Bound hand and foot, a slave once more, 

The hapless wretch lay trembling. 

I saw the parson tie the knots, 
The while his flock addressing, 

The Scriptural claims of slavery 
With text on text impressing. 

"Although," said he, " on Sabbath day, 

All secular occupations 
Are deadly sins, we must fulfil 

Our moral obligations : 

*OL II. 11 



162 MISCELLANEOUS. 

"And this commends itself as one 
To every conscience tender ; 

As Paul sent back Onesimus, 

My Christian friends, we send her ! * 

Shriek rose on shriek, — the Sabbath air 
Her wild cries tore asunder ; 

I listened, with hushed breath, to hear 
God answering with his thunder ! 

All still ! — the very altar's cloth 

Had smothered down her shrieking, 

And, dumb, she turned from face to face, 
For human pity seeking ! 

I saw her dragged along the aisle, 
Her shackles harshly clanking ; 

I heard the parson, over all, 
The Lord devoutly thanking ! 

My brain took fire : " Is this," I cried, 
" The end of prayer and preaching ? 

Then down with pulpit, down with priest, 
And give us Nature's teaching ! 

" Foul shame and scorn be on ye all 

Who turn the good to evil, 
And steal the Bible from the Lord, 

To give it to the Devil ! 

" Than garbled text or parchment law 

I own a statute higher ; 
And God is true, though every book 

And every man's a liar ! " 

Just then I felt the deacon's hand 
In wrath my coat-tail seize on ; 

I heard the priest cry " Infidel ! " 
The lawyer mutter " Treason ! " 



REMEMBRANCE. 163 

I started up, — where now were church, 
Slave, master, priest and people ? 

I only heard the supper-bell, 
Instead of clanging steeple. 

But, on the open window's sill, 

O'er which the white blooms drifted, 

The pages of a good old Book 
The wind of summer lifted. 

And flower and vine, like angel wings 

Around the Holy Mother, 
Waved softly there, as if God's truth 

And Mercy kissed each other. 

And freely from the cherry-bough 

Above the casement swinging, 
With golden bosom to the sun, 

The oriole was singing. 

As bird and flower made plain of old 

The lesson of the Teacher, 
So now I heard the written Word 

Interpreted by Nature ! 

For to my ear methought the breeze 

Bore Freedom's blessed word on ; [yoke, 

Thus saith the Lord: Break every 
Undo the heavy burden ! 



REMEMBBANCE. 

WITH COPIES OF THE AUTHOB'S WRITINGS. 

Friend of mine ! whose lot was cast 
With me in the distant past, — 
Where, like shadows flitting fast, 



164 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Fact and fancy, thought and theme, 
Word and work, begin to seem 
Like a half-remembered dream ! 

Touched by change have all things been. 
Yet I think of thee as when 
We had speech of lip and pen. 

For the calm thy kindness lent 
To a path of discontent, 
Rough with trial and dissent ; 

Gentle words where such were few, 
Softening blame where blame was true, 
Praising where small praise was due ; 

For a waking dream made good, 

For an ideal understood, 

For thy Christian womanhood ; 

For thy marvellous gift to cull 
From our common life and dull 
Whatsoe'er is beautiful ; 

Thoughts and fancies, Hybla's bees 
Dropping sweetness ; true heart's ease 
Of congenial sympathies ; — 

Still for these I own my debt ; 
Memory, with her eyelids wet, 
Fain would thank thee even yet ! 

And as one who scatters flowers 
Where the Queen of May's sweet hours 
Sits, o'ertwined with blossomed bowers, 

In superfluous zeal bestowing 
Gifts where gifts are overflowing, 
So I pay the debt I'm owing. 



THE POOR VOTER ON ELECTION DAY. 1G5 

To thy full thoughts, gay or sad, 
Sunny-hued or sober clad, 
Something of my own I add ; 



Well assured that thou wilt take 
Even the offering which I make 
Kindly for the giver's sake. 



THE POOR VOTER ON ELECTION DAY 

The proudest now is but my peer, 

The highest not more high ; 
To-day, of all the weary year, 

A king of men am I. 
To-day, alike are great and small, 

The nameless and the known ; 
My palace is the people's hall, 

The ballot-box my throne ! 

Who serves to-day upon the list 

Beside the served shall stand ; 
Alike the brown and wrinkled fist, 

The gloved and dainty hand ! 
The rich is level with the poor, 

The weak is strong to-day ; 
And sleekest broadcloth counts no more 

Than homespun frock of gray. 

To-day let pomp and vain pretence 

My stubborn right abide ; 
I set a plain man's common sense 

Against the pedant's pride. 
To-day shall simple manhood try 

The strength of gold and land; 
The wide world has not wealth to buy 

The power in my right hand 1 



166 MISCELLANEOUS. 

While there's a grief to seek redress, 

Or balance to adjust 
Where weighs our living manhood less 

Than Mammon's vilest dust, — 
While there's a right to need my vote, 

A wrong to sweep away, 
Up ! clouted knee and ragged coat ! 

A man's a man to-day ! 



TRUST. 

The same old baffling questions ! O, my friend 
I cannot answer them. In vain I send 
My soul into the dark, where never burn 

The lamps of science, nor the natural light 
Of Reason's sun and stars ! I cannot learn 
Their great and solemn meanings, nor discern 
The awful secrets of the eyes which turn 

Evermore on us through the day and night 

With silent challenge and a dumb demand, 
Proffering the riddles of the dread unknown, 
Like the calm Sphinxes, with their eyes of stone, 

Questioning the centuries from their veils of 
sand! 
I have no answer for myself or thee, 
Save that I learned beside my mother's knee ; 
"All is of God that is, and is to be ; 

And God is good." Let this suffice us still, 
Resting in child-like trust upon his will, 
Who moves to his great ends unthwarted by the ill. 



KATHLEEN. 167 



KATHLEEN.18 



O Nor ah, lay your basket down, 

And rest your weary hand, 
.And come and hear me sing a song 

Of our old Ireland. 

There was a lord of Galaway, 

A might lord was he ; 
And he did wed a second wife, 

A maid of low degree. 

But he was old, and she was young, 

And so, in evil spite, 
She baked the black bread for his kin, 

And fed her own with white. 

She whipped the maids and starved the kern.. 

And drove away the poor ; 
"Ah, woe is me ! " the old lord said, 

" I rue my bargain sore ! " 

This lord he had a daughter fair, 

Beloved of old and young, 
And nightly round the shealing fires 

Of her the gleeman sung. 

"As sweet and good is young Kathleen 

As Eve before her fall ; " 
So sang the harper at the fair, 

So harped he in the hall. 

" O, come to me, my daughter dear ! 

Come sit upon my knee, 
For looking in your face, Kathleen, 

Your mother's own I see ! " 



168 MISCELLANEOUS. 

He smoothed and smoothed her hair away, 

He kissed her forehead fair ; 
" It is my darling Mary's brow, 

It is my darling's hair ! " 

O, then spake up the angry dame, 

" Get up, get up," quoth she, 
" I'll sell ye over Ireland, 

" I'll sell ye o'er the sea ! " 

She clipped her glossy hair away, 
That none her rank might know, 

She took away her gown of silk, 
And gave her one of tow, 

And sent her down to Limerick town, 

And to a seaman sold 
This daughter of an Irish lord 

For ten good pounds in gold. 

The lord he smote upon his breast, 

And tore his beard so gray ; 
But he was old, and she was young, 

And so she had her way. 

Sure that same night the Banshee howled 

To fright the evil dame, 
And fairy folks, who loved Kathleen, 

With funeral torches came. 

She watched them glancing through the trees, 
And glimmering down the hill ; 

They crept before the dead- vault door, 
And there they all stood still ! 

" Get up, old man ! the wake-lights shine ! " 
" Ye murthering witch," quoth he, 

" So I'm rid of your tongue, I little care 
If they shine for you or me." 



KATHLEEN. 169 

" O, whoso brings my daughter back, 

My gold and land shall have ! " 
O, then spake up his handsome page, 

" No gold nor land I crave ! 

" But give to me your daughter dear, 

Give sweet Kathleen to me, 
Be she on sea or be she on land, 

I'll bring her back to thee." 

" My daughter is a lady born, 

And you of low degree, 
But she shall be your bride the day 

You bring her back to me." 

He sailed East, he sailed West, 

And far and long sailed he, 
Until he came to Boston town, 

Across the great salt sea. 

" 0, have ye seen the young Kathleen, 

The flower of Ireland ? 
Ye'll know her by her eyes so blue, 

And by her snow-white hand ! " 

Out spake an ancient man, " I know 

The maiden whom ye mean ; 
I bought her of a Limerick man, 

And she is called Kathleen. 

" No skill hath she in household work, 

Her hands are soft and white, 
Yet well by loving looks and ways 

She doth her cost requite." 

So up they walked through Boston town, 

And met a maiden fair, 
A little basket on her arm 

So snowy-white and bare. 



170 MISCELLANEOUS. 

" Corae hither child, and say hast thou 
This young man ever seen V " 

They wept within each other's arms, 
The page and young Kathleen. 

" O, -give to me this darling child, 
And take my purse of gold." 

" Nay, not by me," her master said, 
" Shall sweet Kathleen be sold. 

" We loved her in the place of one 

The Lord hath early ta'en : 
But, since her heart's in Ireland, 

We give her back again ! " 

O, for that same the saints in heaven 
For his poor soul shall pray, 

And Mary Mother wash with tears 
His heresies away. 

Sure now they dwell in Ireland, 

As you go up Claremore 
Ye'll see their castle looking down 

The pleasant Galway shore. 

And the old lord's wife is dead and gone, 

And a happy man is he, 
For he sits beside his own Kathleen, 

With her darling on his knee. 



FIRST-DAY THOUGHTS. 

In calm and cool and silence, once again 
I find my old accustomed place among 
My brethren, where, perchance, no human tongue 



KOSSUTH. 171 

Shall utter words ; where never hymn is sung, 
Nor deep-toned organ blown, nor censer swung, 

Nor dim light falling through the pictured pane ! 

There, syllabled by silence, let me hear 

The still small voice which reached the prophet's 
ear; 

Read in my heart a still diviner law 

Than Israel's leader on his tables saw ! 

There let me strive with each besetting sin, 
Recall my wandering fancies, and restrain 
The sore disquiet of a restless brain ; 
And, as the path of duty is made plain, 

May grace be given that I may walk therein, 
Not like the hireling, for his selfish gain, 

"With backward glances and reluctant tread, 

Making a merit of his coward dread, — 

But, cheerful, in the light around me thrown, 
Walking as one to pleasant service led ; 
Doing God's will as if i't were my own, 

Yet trusting not in mine, but in his strength alone 1 



KOSSUTH.^ 

Type of two mighty continents ! — combining 

The strength of Europe with the warmth and 
glow 
Of Asian song and prophecy,— the shining 

Of Orient splendors over Northern snow ! 
Who shall receive him ? Who, unblushing, speak 
Welcome to him, who, while he strove to break 
The Austrian yoke from Magyar necks, smote off 
At the same blow the fetters of the serf, — 
Rearing the altar of his Father-land 

On the firm base of freedom, and thereby 
Lifting to Heaven a patriot's stainless hand, 

Mocked not the God of Justice with a lie ! 



172 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Who shall be Freedom's mouth-piece ? Who shall 

give 
Her welcoming cheer to the great fugitive ? 
Not he who, all her sacred trusts betraying, 

Is scourging back to slavery's hell of pain 

The swarthy Kossuths of our land again ! 
Not he whose utterance now from lips designed 
The bugle-march of Liberty to wind, 
And call her hosts beneath the breaking light, — 
The keen reveille of her morn of fight, — 

Is but the hoarse note of the bloodhound's baying, 
The wolf's long howl behind the bondman's flight ! 
O for the tongue of him who lies at rest 

In Quincy's shade of patrimonial trees, — 
Last of the Puritan tribunes and the best, — 

To lend a voice to Freedom's sympathies, 
And hail the coming of the noblest guest 
The Old World's wrong has given the New WorM 
of the West ! 



TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER. 



AN EPISTLE NOT AFTER THE MANNER OF HORACE. 

Old friend, kind friend ! lightly down 
Drop time's snow-flakes on thy crown ! 
Never be thy shadow less, 
Never fail thy cheerfulness ; 
Care, that kills the cat, may plough 
Wrinkles in the miser's brow, 
Deepen envy's spiteful frown, 
Draw the mouths of bigots down, 
Plague ambition's dream, and sit 
Heavy on the hypocrite, 
Haunt the rich man's door, and ride 
In the gilded coach of pride ; — 



TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER. 173 

Let the fiend pass ! — what can he 
Find to do with such as thee ? 
Seldom comes that evil guest 
Where the conscience lies at rest, 
And brown health and quiet wit 
Smihng on the threshold sit. 

I, the urchin unto whom, 
In that smoked and dingy room, 
Where the district gave thee rule 
O'er its ragged winter school, 
Thou didst teach the mysteries 
Of those weary A B C's, — 
Where, to fill the every pause 
Of thy wise and learned saws, 
Through the cracked and crazy wall 
Came the cradle-rock and squall, 
And the goodman's voice, at strife 
With his shrill and tipsy wife, — 
Luring us by stories old, 
With a comic unction told, 
More than by the eloquence 
Of terse birchen arguments 
(Doubtful gain, I fear), to look 
With complacence on a book ! — 
Where the genial pedagogue 
Half forgot his rogues to flog, 
Citing tale or apologue, 
Wise and merry in its drift 
As old Phasdrus' twofold gift, 
Had the little rebels known it, 
Risum el prudentiam monet ! 
I, — the man of middle years, 
In whose sable locks appears 
Many a warning fleck of gray,— » 
Looking back to that far day, 
And thy primal lessons, feel 
Grateful smiles my lips unseal, 
As, remembering thee, I blend 



174 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Olden teacher, present friend, 
Wise with antiquarian search, 
In the scrolls of state and church ; 
Named on history's title-page, 
Parish-clerk and justice sage ; 
For the ferule's wholesome awe 
Wielding now the sword of law. 

Threshing Time's neglected sheaves, 
Gathering up the scattered leaves 
Which the wrinkled sibyl cast 
Careless from her as she passed, — 
Twofold citizen art thou, 
Freeman of the past and now. 
He who bore thy name of old 
Midway in the heavens did hold 
Over Gibeon moon and sun ; 
Thou hast bidden them backward run ; 
Of to-day the present ray 
Flinging over yesterday ! 

Let the busy ones deride 
What I deem of right thy pride ; 
Let the fools their tread-mills grind, 
Look not forward nor behind, 
Shuffle in and wriggle out, 
Veer with every breeze about, 
Turning like a windmill sail, 
Or a dog that seeks his tail ; 
Let them laugh to see thee fast 
Tabernacled in the Past, 
Working out with eye and lip, 
Riddles of old penmanship, 
Patient as Belzoni there 
Sorting out, with loving care, 
Mummies of dead questions stripped 
From their seven-fold manuscript ! 

Dabbling, in their noisy way, 
In the puddles of to-day, 



TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER. 1?5 

Little know they of that vast 

Solemn ocean of the past, 

On whose margin, wreck-bespread, 

Thou art walking with the dead, 

Questioning the stranded years, 

Waking smiles, by turns, and tears, 

As thou callest up again 

Shapes the dust has long o'erlain, — 

Fair-haired woman, bearded man, 

Cavalier and Puritan ; 

In an age whose eager view 

Seeks but present things, and new, 

Mad for party, sect and gold, 

Teaching reverence for the old. 

On that shore, with fowler's tact, 
Coolly bagging fact on fact, 
Naught amiss to thee can float. 
Tale, or song, or anecdote ; 
Village gossip, centuries old, 
Scandals by our grandames told, 
What the pilgrim's table spread, 
Where he lived, and whom he wed, 
Long-drawn bill of wine and beer 
For his ordination cheer, 
Or the flip that wellnigh made 
Glad his funeral cavalcade ; 
Weary prose, and poet's lines, 
Flavored by their age, like wines, 
Eulogistic of some quaint, 
Doubtful, puritanic saint ; 
Lays that quickened husking jigs, 
Jests that shook grave periwigs, 
When the parson had his jokes 
And his glass, like other folks ; 
Sermons that, for mortal hours, 
Taxed our fathers' vital powers, 
As the long nineteenthlies poured 
Downward from the sounding-board, 



1 76 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And, for fire of Pentecost, 

Touched their beards December's frost 

Time is hastening on, and we 
What our fathers are shall be, — 
Shadow-shapes of memory ! 
Joined to that vast multitude 
Where the great are but the good, 
And the mind of strength shall prove 
Weaker than the heart of love ; 
Pride of gray-beard wisdom less 
Than the infant's guilelessness, 
And his song of sorrow more 
Than the crown the Psalmist wore ! 
Who shall then, with pious zeal, 
At our moss-grown thresholds kneel, 
From a stained and stony page 
Reading to a careless age, 
With a patient eye like thine, 
Prosing tale and limping line, 
Names and words the hoary rime 
Of the Past has made sublime ? 
Who shall work for us as well 
The antiquarian's miracle ? 
W r ho to seeming life recall 
Teacher grave and pupil small ? 
Who shall give to thee and me 
Freeholds in futurity ? 

Well, whatever lot be mine, 
Long and happy days be thine, 
Ere thy full and honored age 
Dates of time its latest page ! 
Squire for master, State for school, 
Wisely lenient, live and rule ; 
Over grown-up knave and rogue 
Play the watchful pedagogue ; 
Or, while pleasure smiles on duty. 
At the call of youth and beauty, 



TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER. 177 

Speak for them the spell of law 
Which shall bar and bolt withdraw, 
And the flaming sword remove 
From the Paradise of Love. 
Still, with undimmed eyesight, pore 
Ancient tome and record o'er ; 
Still thy week-day lyrics croon, 
Pitch in church the Sunday tune, 
Showing something, in thy part, 
Of the old Puritanic art, 
Singer after Sternhold's heart I 
In thy pew, for many a year, 
Homilies from Oldbug hear, 20 
Who to wit like that of South, 
And the Syrian's golden mouth, 
Doth the homely pathos add 
Which the pilgrim preachers had ; 
Breaking, like a child at play, 
Gilded idols of the day, 
Cant of knave and pomp of fool 
Tossing with his ridicule, 
Yet, in earnest or in jest, 
Ever keeping truth abreast. 
And, when thou art called, at last, 
To thy townsmen of the past, 
Not as stranger shalt thou come ; 
Thou shalt find thyself at home ! 
With the little and the big, 
Woollen cap and periwig, 
Madam in her high-laced ruff, 
Goody in her home-made stuff, — 
Wise and simple, rich and poor, 
Thou hast known them all before * 



12 



PANORAMA, AND OTHER POEMS. 

1856 



" A ! fredome is a nobill thing ! 
Fredome mayse man to naif liking. 
Fredome all solace to man giffiis ; 
He levys at ese that frely levys ! 
A nobil hart may haif nane ese 
Na ellys nocht that may him plese 
Gyff Fredome failythe." 

AaCHDSACON BABB0U3. 



THE PANORAMA 

Through the long hall the shuttered windows 
shed 
A dubious light on every up-turned head, — 
On locks like those of Absalom the fair, 
On the bald apex ringed with scanty hair, 
On blank indifference and on curious stare ; 
On the pale Showman reading from his stage 
The hieroglyphics of that facial page ; 
Half sad, half scornful, listening to the bruit 
Of restless cane-tap and impatient foot, 
And the shrill call, across the general din, 
" Roll up your curtain ! Let the show begin ! " 

At length a murmur like the winds that break 
Into green waves the prairie's grassy lake, 
Deepened and swelled to music clear and loud, 
And, as the west wind lifts a summer cloud, 
The curtain rose, disclosing wide and far 
A green land stretching to the evening star, 
Fair rivers, skirted by primeval trees 
And flowers hummed over by the desert bees, 
Marked by tall bluffs whose slopes of greenness 

show 
Fantastic outcrops of the rock below, — 
The slow result of patient Nature's pains, 
And plastic fingering of her sun and rains, — 
Arch, tower, and gate, grotesquely- windowed hall, 
And long escarpment of half-crumbled wall, 
Huger than those which, from steep hills of vine, 
Stare through their loop-holes on the travelled 

Rhine ; 



182 THE PANORAMA. 

Suggesting vaguely to the gazer's mind 
A fancy, idle as the prairie wind, 
Of the land's dwellers in an age unguessed — 
The unsung Jotuns of the mystic West. 

Beyond, the prairie's sea-like swells surpass 
The Tartar's marvels of his Land of Grass, 
Vast as the sky against whose sunset shores 
Wave after wave the billowy greenness pours 
And, onward still, like islands in that main 
Loom the rough peaks of many a mountain chain, 
Whence East and West a thousand waters run 
From Winter lingering under Summer's sun. 
And, still beyond, long lines of foam and sand 
Tell where Pacific rolls his waves a-land, 
From many a wide-lapped port and land-locked 

Opening with thunderous pomp the world's high* 

way' 
To Indian isles of spice, and marts of far Cathay. 

" Such," said the Showman, as the curtain fell, 
" Is the new Canaan of our Israel — 
The land of promise to the swarming North, 
Which, hive-like, sends its annual surplus forth, 
To the poor Southron on his worn-out soil, 
Scathed by the curses of unnatural toil ; 
To Europe's exiles seeking home and rest, 
And the lank nomads of the wandering West, 
Who, asking neither, in their love of change 
And the free bison's amplitude of range, 
Rear the log hut, for present shelter meant, 
Not future comfort, like an Arab's tent." 

Then spake a shrewd on-looker. " Sir," said he, 
" I like your picture, but I fain would see 
A sketch of what your promised land will be 
When, with electric nerve, and fiery-brained, 
With Nature's forces to its chariot chained, 



THE PANORAMA. 183 

The future grasping, by the past obeyed, 
The twentieth century rounds a new decade." 

Then said the Showman, sadly: " He who grieves 
Over the scattering of the Sibyl's leaves 
Unwisely mourns. Suffice it, that we know 
What needs must ripen from the seed we sow ; 
That present time is but the mould wherein 
We cast the shapes of holiness and sin. 
A painful watcher of the passing hour, 
Its lust of gold, its strife for place and power ; 
Its lack of manhood, honor, reverence, truth, 
Wise-thoughted age, and generous-hearted youth ; 
Nor yet unmindful of each better sign — 
The low, far lights, which on th' horizon shine, 
Like those which sometimes tremble on the rim 
Of clouded skies when day is closing dim, 
Flashing athwart the purple spears of rain 
The hope of sunshine on the hills again : — 
I need no prophet's word, nor shapes that pass 
Like clouding shadows o'er a magic glass ; 
For now, as ever, passionless and cold, 
Doth the dread angel of the future hold 
Evil and good before us, with no voice 
Or warning look to guide us in our choice ; 
With spectral hands outreaching through the gloom 
The shadowy contrasts of the coming doom. 
Transferred from these, it now remains to give 
The sun and shade of Fate's alternative." 

Then, with a burst of music, touching all 
The keys of thrifty life — the mill-stream's fall, 
The engine's pant along its quivering rails, 
The anvil's ring, the measured beat of Hails, 
The sweep of scythes, the reaper's whistled tune, 
Answering the summons of the bells of noon, 
The woodman's hail along the river shores, 
The steamboat's signal, and the dip of oars, — 
Slowly the curtain rose from off a land 



184 THE PANORAMA. 

Fair as God's garden. Broad on either hand 
The golden wheat-fields glimmered in the sun, 
And the tall maize its yellow tassels spun. 
Smooth highways set with hedge-rows living green, 
With steepled towns through shaded vistas seen, 
The schoolhouse murmuring with its hive-like 

swarm, 
The brook-bank whitening in the grist-mill's storm, 
The painted farm-house shining through the leav ea 
Of fruited orchards bending at its eaves, 
Where live again, around the Western hearth, 
The homely old-time virtues of the North ; 
Where the blythe housewife rises with the day, 
And well-paid labor counts his task a play. 
And, grateful tokens of a Bible free, 
And the free Gospel of Humanity, 
Of diverse sects and differing names the shrines, 
One in their faith, whate'er their outward signs, 
Like varying strophes of the same sweet hymn 
From many a prairie's swell and river's brim, 
A thousand church-spires sanctify the air 
Of the calm Sabbath, with their sign of prayer. 

Like sudden nightfall over bloom and green 
The curtain dropped : and, momently, between 
The clank of fetter and the crack of thong, 
Half sob, half laughter, music swept along — 
A strange refrain, whose idle words and low, 
Like drunken mourners, kept the time of woe ; 
As if the revellers at a masquerade 
Heard in the distance funeral marches played. 
Such music, dashing all his smiles with tears, 
The thoughtful voyager on Ponchartrain hears, 
Where, through the noonday dusk of wooded shores, 
The negro boatman, singing to his oars, 
With a wild pathos borrowed of his wrong 
Redeems the jargon of his senseless song. 
H Look," said the Showman, sternly, as he rolled 
His curtain upward ; " Fate's reverse behold ! " 



THE PANORAMA. 185 

A village straggling in loose disarray 
Of vulgar newness, premature decay ; 
A tavern, crazy with its whisky brawls, 
With " Slaves at Auction ! " garnishing its walls. 
Without, surrounded by a motley crowd, 
The shrewd-eyed salesman, garrulous and loud, 
A squire or colonel in his pride of place, 
Known at free fights, the caucus, and the race, 
Prompt to proclaim his honor without blot, 
And silence doubters with a ten-pace shot, 
Mingling the negro-driving bully's rant 
With pious phrase and democratic cant, 
Yet never scrupling, with a filthy jest, 
To sell the infant from its mother's breast, 
Break through all ties of wedlock, home, and kin, 
Yield shrinking girlhood up to gray-beard sin ; 
Sell all the virtues with his human stock, 
The Christian graces on his auction-block, 
And coolly count on shrewdest bargains driven 
In hearts regenerate, and in souls forgiven ! 

Look once again ! The moving canvas shows 
A slave plantation's slovenly repose, 
Where, in rude cabins rotting midst their weeds, 
The human chattel eats, and sleeps, and breeds ; 
And, held a brute, in practice, as in law, 
Becomes in fact the thing he's taken for. 
There, early summoned to the hemp and corn, 
The nursing mother leaves her child new-born ; 
There haggard sickness, weak and deathly faint, 
Crawls to his task, and fears to make complaint ; 
And sad-eyed Rachels, childless in decay, 
Weep for their lost ones sold and torn away ! 
Of ampler size the master's dwelling stands, 
In shabby keeping with his half-tilled lands, — 
The gates unhinged, the yard with weeds unclean, 
The cracked veranda with a tipsy lean. 
Without, loose-scattered like a wreck adrift, 
Signs of misrule and tokens of unthrift ; 



186 THE PANORAMA. 

Within, profusion to discomfort joined, 

The listless body and the vacant mind ; 

The fear, the hate, the theft and falsehood, born 

In menial hearts of toil, and stripes, and scorn ! 

There, all the vices, which, like birds obscene, 

Batten on slavery loathsome and unclean, 

From the foul kitchen to the parlor rise, 

Pollute the nursery where the child-heir lies, 

Taint infant lips beyond all after cure, 

With the fell poison of a breast impure ; 

Touch boyhood's passions with the breath of flame^ 

From girlhood's instincts steal the blush of shame. 

So swells from low to high, 

The tragic chorus of the baleful wrong ; 

Guilty or guiltless, all within its range 

Feel the blind justice of its sure revenge. 

Still scenes like these the moving chart reveals. 
Up the long western steppes the blighting steals ; 
Down the Pacific slope the evil Fate 
Glides like a shadow to the Golden Gate : 
From sea to sea the drear eclipse is thrown, 
From sea to sea the Mauvaises Terres have grown, 
A belt of curses on the New World's zone ! 

The curtain fell. All drew a freer breath, 
As men are wont to do when mournful death 
Is covered from their sight. The Showman stood 
With drooping brow in sorrow's attitude 
One moment, then with sudden gesture shook 
His loose hair back, and with the air and look 
Of one who felt, beyond the narrow stage 
And listening group, the presence of the age, 
And heard the footsteps of the things to be, 
Poured out his soul in earnest words and free. 

" O, friends ! " he said, " in this poor trick of 
paint 
You see the semblance, incomplete and faint, 



THE PANORAMA. 187 

Of the two-fronted Future, which, to-day, 
Stands dim and silent, waiting in your way. 
To-day, your servant, subject to your will ; 
To-morrow, master, or for good or ill. 
If the dark face of Slavery on you turns, 
If the mad curse its paper barrier spurns, 
If the world granary of the West is made 
The last foul market of the slaver's trade, 
Why rail at fate ? The mischief is your own. 
Why hate your neighbor? Blame yourselves 
alone ! 

Men of the North ! The South you charge with 
wrong 
Is weak and poor, while you are rich and strong. 
If questions, — idle and absurd as those 
The old-time monks and Paduan doctors chose, — 
Mere ghosts of questions, tariffs and dead banks, 
And scarecrow pontiffs, never broke your ranks, 
Your thews united could, at once, roll back 
The jostled nation to its primal track. 
Nay, were you simply steadfast, manly, just, 
True to the faith your fathers left in trust, 
If stainless honor outweighed in your scale 
A codfish quintal or a factory bale, 
Full many a noble heart, (and such remain 
In all the South, like Lot in Siddim's plain, 
Who watch and wait, and from the wrong's con» 

trol 
Keep white and pure their chastity of soul,) 
Now sick to loathing of your weak complaints, 
Your tricks as sinners, and your prayers as saints, 
Would half-way meet the frankness of your tone, 
And feel their pulses beating with your own. 

The North ! the South ! no geographic line 
Can fix the boundary or the point define, 
Since each with each so closely interblends, 
Where Slavery rises, and where Freedom ends. 



188 THE PANORAMA. 

Beneath your rocks the roots, far-reaching, hide 

Of the fell Upas on the Southern side ; 

The tree whose branches in your north winds 

wave 
Dropped its young blossoms on Mount Vernon's 

grave ; 
The nursling growth of Monticello's crest 
Is now the glory of the free Northwest ; 
To the wise maxims of her olden school 
Virginia listened from thy lips, Rantoul ; 
Seward's words of power, and Sumner's fresh re- 
nown, 
Flow from the pen that Jefferson laid down ! 
And when, at length, her years of madness o'er, 
Like the crowned grazer on Euphrates' shore, 
From her long lapse to savagery, her mouth 
Bitter with baneful herbage, turns the South, 
Resumes her old attire, and seeks to smooth 
Her unkempt tresses at the glass of truth, 
Her early faith shall find a tongue again, 
New Wythes and Pinckneys swell that old re« 

train, 
Her sons with yours renew the ancient pact, 
The myth of Union prove at last a fact ! 
Then, if one murmur mars the wide content, 
Some Northern lip will drawl the last dissent, 
Some Union-saving patriot of your own 
Lament to find his occupation gone. 

Grant that the North's insulted, scorned, be» 

trayed, 
O'erreached in bargains with her neighbor made, 
When selfish thrift and party held the scales 
For peddling dicker, not for honest sales, — 
Whom shall we strike ? Who most deserves oui 

blame ? 
The braggart Southron, open in his aim, 
And bold as wicked, crashing straight through all 
That bars his purpose, like a cannon-ball ? 



THE PANORAMA. 189 

Or the mean traitor, breathing northern air, 
With nasal speech and puritanic hair, 
Whose cant the loss of principle survives, 
As the mud-turtle e'en its head outlives ; 
Who, caught, chin-buried in some foul offence, 
Puts on a look of injured innocence, 
And consecrates his baseness to the cause 
Of constitution, union, and the laws ? 

Praise to the place-man who can hold aloof 
His still unpurchased manhood, office-proof; 
Who on his round of duty walks erect, 
And leaves it only rich in self-respect, — 
As More maintained his virtue's lofty port 
In the Eighth Henry's base and bloody court. 
But, if exceptions here and there are found, 
Who tread thus safely on enchanted ground, 
The normal type, the fitting symbol still 
Of those who fatten at the public mill, 
Is the chained dog beside his master's door, 
Or Circe's victim, feeding on all four ! 

Give me the heroes who, at tuck of drum, 
Salute thy staff, immortal Quattlebum ! 
Or they who, doubly armed with vote and gun, 
Following thy lead, illustrious Atchison, 
Their drunken franchise shift from scene to scene, 
As tile-beard Jourdan did his guillotine ! — ■ 
Rather than him who, born beneath our skies, 
To Slavery's hand its supplest tool supplies, — 
The party felon whose unblushing face 
Looks from the pillory of his bribe of place, 
And coolly makes a merit of disgrace, — 
Points to the footmarks of indignant scorn, 
Shows the deep scars of satire's tossing horn ; 
And passes to his credit side the sum 
Of all that makes a scoundrel's martyrdom ! 

Bane of the North, its canker and its moth ! — 
These modern Esaus, bartering rights for broth ! 



190 THE PANORAMA. 

Taxing our justice, with their double claim, 
As fools for pity, and as knaves for blame ; 
Who, urged by party, sect, or trade, within 
The fell embrace of Slavery's sphere of sin, 
Part at the outset with their moral sense, 
The watchful angel set for Truth's defence ; 
Confound all contrasts, good and ill ; reverse 
The poles of life, its blessing and its curse ; 
And lose thenceforth from their perverted sight 
The eternal difference 'twixt the wrong and 

right ; 
To them the Law is but the iron span 
That girds the ankles of imbruted man ; 
To them the Gospel has no higher aim 
Than simple sanction of the master's claim, 
Dragged in the slime of Slavery's loathsome trail, 
Like Chalier's Bible at his ass's tail ! 

Such are the men who, with instinctive dread, 
Whenever Freedom lifts her drooping head, 
Make prophet-tripods of their office-stools, 
And scare the nurseries and the village schools 
With dire presage of ruin grim and great, 
A broken Union and a foundered State ! 
Such are the patriots, self-bound to the stake 
Of office, martyrs for their country's sake : 
Who fill themselves the hungry jaws of Fate, 
And by their loss of manhood save the State. 
In the wide gulf themselves like Curtius throw, 
And test the virtues of cohesive dough ; 
As tropic monkeys, linking heads and tails, 
Bridge o'er some torrent of Ecuador's vales ! 

Such are the men who in your churches rave 
To swearing point, at mention of the slave, 
When some poor parson, haply unawares, 
Stammers of freedom in his timid prayers ; 
Who, if some foot-sore negro through the town 
Steals northward, volunteer to hunt him down. 



THE PANORAMA. 191 

Or, if some neighbor, flying from disease, 
Courts the mild balsam of the Southern breeze, 
With hue and cry pursue him on his track, 
And write Free-Toiler on the poor man's back. 
Such are the men who leave the peddler's cart, 
While faring South, to learn the driver's art, 
Or, in white neckcloth, soothe with pious aim 
The graceful sorrows of some languid dame, 
Who, from the wreck of her bereavement, saves 
The double charm of widowhood and slaves ! — 
Pliant and apt, they lose no chance to show 
To what base depths apostasy can go ; 
Outdo the natives in their readiness 
To roast a negro, or to mob a press ; 
JPoise a tarred schoolmate on the lyncher's rail, 
Or make a bonfire of their birthplace mail ! 

So some poor wretch, whose lips no longer bear 
The sacred burden of his mother's prayer, 
By fear impelled, or lust of gold enticed, 
Turns to the Crescent from the Cross of Christ, 
And, over-acting in superfluous zeal, 
Crawls -prostrate where the faithful only kneel, 
Out-howls the Dervish, hugs his rags to court 
The squalid Santon's sanctity of dirt ; 
And, when beneath the city gateway's span 
Files slow and long the Meccan caravan, 
And through its midst, pursued by Islam's prayers, 
The prophet's Word some favored camel bears, 
The marked apostate has his place assigned 
The Koran-bearer's sacred rump behind, 
With brush and pitcher following, grave and 

mute, 
In meek attendance on the holy brute ! 

Men of the North ! beneath your very eyes, 
By hearth and home, your real danger lies. 
Still day by day some hold of freedom falls, 
Through home-bred traitors fed within its walls.— 



192 THE PANORAMA. 

Men whom yourselves with vote and purse sustain, 

At posts of honor, influence, and gain ; 

The right of Slavery to your sons to teach, 

And " South-side " Gospels in your pulpits preach 

Transfix the Law to ancient freedom dear 

On the sharp point of her subverted spear, 

And imitate upon her cushion plump 

The mad Missourian lynching from his stump ; 

Or, in your name, upon the Senate's floor 

Yield up to Slavery all it asks, and more ; 

And, ere your dull eyes open to the cheat, 

Sell your old homestead underneath your feet! 

While such as these your loftiest outlooks hold, 

While truth and conscience with your wares are 

sold, 
While grave-browed merchants band themselves 

to aid 
An annual man-hunt for their Southern trade, 
What moral power within your grasp remains 
To stay the mischief on Nebraska's plains ? — 
High as the tides of generous impulse flow, 
As far rolls back the selfish undertow : 
And all your brave resolves, though aimed as true 
As the horse-pistol Balmawhapple drew, 
To Slavery's bastions lend as slight a shock 
As the poor trooper's shot to Stirling rock ! 

Yet, while the need of Freedom's cause demands 
The earnest efforts of your hearts and hands, 
Urged by all motives that can prompt the heart 
To prayer and toil and manhood's manliest part ; 
Though to the soul's deep tocsin nature joins 
The warning whisper of her Orphic pines, 
The north- wind's anger, and the south- wind's sigh, 
The midnight sword-dance of the northern sky, 
And, to the ear that bends above the sod 
Of the green grave-mounds in the Fields of God, 
In low; deep murmurs of rebuke or cheer, 
The land's dead fathers speak their hope or fear j 



THE PANORAMA. 193 

Yet let not passion wrest from Reason's hand 
The guiding rein and symbol of command. 
Blame not the caution proffering to your zeal 
A well-meant drag upon its hurrying wheel, 
Nor chide the man whose honest doubt extends 
To the means only, not the righteous ends : 
Nor fail to weigh the scruples and the fears 
Of milder natures and serener years. 
In the long strife with evil which began 
With the first lapse of new-created man, 
Wisely and well has Providence assigned 
To each his part, — some forward, some behind ; 
And they, too, serve, who temper and restrain 
The o'erwarm heart that sets on fire the brain. 
True to yourselves, feed Freedom's altar-flame 
With what you have ; let others do the same. 
Spare timid doubters ; set like flint your face 
Against the self-sold knaves of gain and place : 
Pity the weak ; but with unsparing hand 
Cast out the traitors who infest the land, — 
From bar, press, pulpit, cast them everywhere, 
By dint of fasting, if you fail by prayer. 
And in their place bring men of antique mould, 
Like the grave fathers of your Age of Gold, — 
Statesmen like those who sought the primal fount 
Of righteous law, the Sermon on the Mount ; 
Lawyers who prize, like Quincy, (to our day 
Still spared, Heaven bless him !) honor more than 

P a 7'. . . 
A.nd Christian jurists, starry-pure, like Jay ; 

Preachers like Woolman, or like them who bore 

The faith of Wesley to our western shore, 

And held no convert genuine till he broke 

Alike his servants' and the Devil's yoke ; 

And priests like him who Newport's market trod, 

And o'er its slave-ships shook the bolts of God ! 

So shall your power, with a wise prudence used, 

Strong but forbearing, firm but not abused, 

VOL. II. 13 



194 THE PANORAMA. 

In kindly keeping with the good of all, 
The nobler maxims of the past recall, 
Her natural home-born right to Freedom give, 
And leave her foe his robber-right — to live. 
Live, as the snake does in his noisome fen ! 
Live, as the wolf does in his bone-strewn den ! 
Live, clothed with cursing like a robe of flame, 
The focal point of million-fingered shame ! 
Live, till the Southron, who, with all his faults 
Has manly instincts, in his pride revolts, 
Dashes from off him, 'midst the glad world's cheers, 
The hideous nightmare of his dream of years, 
And lifts, self-prompted, with his own right hand, 
The vile incumbrance from his glorious land ! 

So, wheresoe'er our destiny sends forth 
Its widening circles to the South or North, 
Where'er our banner flaunts beneath the stars 
Its mimic splendors and its cloudlike bars, 
There shall Free Labor's hardy children stand 
The equal sovereigns of a slaveless land. 
And when at last the hunted bison tires, 
And dies o'ertaken by the squatter's fires ; 
And westward, wave on wave, the living flood 
Breaks on the snow-line of majestic Hood ; 
And lonely Shasta listening hears the tread 
Of Europe's fair-haired children, Hesper-led ; 
And, gazing downward through his hoar-locks, seei 
The tawny Asian climb his giant knees, 
The Eastern sea shall hush his waves to hear 
Pacific's surf-beat answer Freedom's cheer, 
And one long rolling fire of triumph run 
Between the sunrise and the sunset gun ! " 



My task is done. The Showman and his show, 
Themselves but shadows, into shadows go ; 
And, if no song of idlesse I have sung, 



THE PANOKAMA. 195 

Nor tints of beauty on the canvas flung, — 

If the harsh numbers grate on tender ears, 

And the rough picture overwrought appears, — 

With deeper coloring, with a sterner blast, 

Before my soul a voice and vision passed, 

Such as might Milton's jarring trump require, 

Or glooms of Dante fringed with lurid fire. 

O, not of choice, for themes of public wrong 

I leave the green and pleasant paths of song — 

The mild, sweet words, which soften and adorn, 

For griding taunt and bitter laugh of scorn. 

More dear to me some song of private worth, 

Some homely idyl of my native North, 

Some summer pastoral of her inland vales 

And sea-brown hamlets, through where misty gales 

Flit the dim ghosts of unreturning sails — 

Lost barks at parting hung from stem to helm 

With prayers of love like dreams on Virgil's elm ; 

Nor private grief nor malice hold my pen ; 

I owe but kindness to my fellow-men. 

And, South or North, wherever hearts of prayer 

Their woes and weakness to our Father bear, 

Wherever fruits of Christian love are found 

In holy lives, to me is holy ground. 

But the time passes. It were vain to crave 

A late indulgence. What I had I gave. 

Forget the poet, but his warning heed, 

And shame his poor word with your nobler deed. 



MISCELLANEOUS, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



SUMMER BY THE LAKE-SIDE. 



I. NOON. 

White clouds, whose shadows haunt the deep, 
Light mists, whose soft embraces keep 
The sunshine on the hills asleep ! 

O, isles of calm ! — O, dark, still wood ! 
And stiller skies that overbrood 
Your rest with deeper quietude ! 

O, shapes and hues, dim beckoning, through 
Yon mountain gaps, my longing view 
Beyond the purple and the blue, 

To stiller sea and greener land, 

And softer lights and airs more bland, 

And skies — the hollow of God's hand ! 

Transfused through you, O mountain friends ! 
With mine your solemn spirit blends, 
And life no more hath separate ends. 

I read each misty mountain sign, 
I know the voice of wave and pine, 
And I am yours, and ye are mine. 



200 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Life's burdens fall, its discords cease, 

I lapse into the glad release 

Of nature's own exceeding peace. 

O, welcome calm of heart and mind ! 
As falls yon fir-tree's loosened rind 
To leave a tenderer growth behind, 

So fall the weary years away ; 
A child again, my head I lay 
Upon the lap of this sweet day. 

This western wind hath Lethean powers, 
Yon noonday cloud nepenthe showers, 
The lake is white with lotus-flowers ! 

Even Duty's voice is faint and low, 

And slumberous Conscience, waking slow, 

Forgets her blotted scroll to show. 

The Shadow which pursues us all, 
Whose ever-nearing steps appall, 
Whose voice we hear behind us call — 

That Shadow blends with mountain gray, 
It speaks but what the light waves say — 
Death walks apart from Fear to-day ! 

Rocked on her breast, these pines and I 
Alike on Nature's love rely ; 
And equal seems to live or die. 

Assured that He, whose presence fills 
With light the spaces of these hills, 
No evil to his creatures wills, 

The simple faith remains, that He 
Will do, whatever that may be, 
The best alike for man and tree. 



SUMMER BY THE LAKE-SIDE. 201 

What mosses over one shall grow, 
What light and life the other know, 
Unanxious, leaving Him to show. 



II. EVENING. 

Yon mountain's side is black with night, 
While, broad-orbed, o'er its gleaming crown 

The moon, slow-rounding into sight, 
On the hushed inland sea looks down. 

How start to light the clustering isles, 

Each silver-hemmed ! How sharply show 

The shadows of their rocky piles, 
And tree-tops in the wave below ! 

How far and strange the mountains seem, 
Dim-looming through the pale, still light ! 

The vague, vast grouping of a dream, 
They stretch into the solemn night. 

Beneath, lake, wood, and peopled vale, 
Hushed by that presence grand and grave, 

Are silent, save the cricket's wail, 
And low response of leaf and wave. 

Fair scenes ! whereto the Day and Night 
Make rival love, I leave ye soon, 

What time before the eastern light 
The pale ghost of the setting moon 

Shall hide behind yon rocky spines, 

And the young archer, Morn, shall break 

His arrows on the mountain pines, 
And, golden-sandalled, walk the lake ! 

Farewell ! around this smiling bay 

Gay-hearted Health, and Life in bloom, 



202 MISCELLANEOUS. 

With lighter steps than mine, may stray 
In radiant summers yet to come. 

But none shall more regretful leave 
These waters and these hills than I : 

Or, distant, fonder dream how eve 
Or dawn is painting wave and sky ; 

How rising moons shine sad and mild 
On wooded isle and silvering bay ; 

Or setting suns beyond the piled 
And purple mountains lead the day ; 

Nor laughing girl, nor bearding boy, 
Nor full-pulsed manhood, lingering here. 

Shall add, to life's abounding joy, 

The charmed repose to suffering dear. 

Still waits kind Nature to impart 
Her choicest gifts to such as gain 

An entrance to her loving heart 

Through the sharp discipline of pain. 

Forever from the Hand that takes 
One blessing from us others fall ; 

And, soon or late, our Father makes 
His perfect recompense to all ! 

O, watched by Silence and the Night, 
And folded in the strong embrace 

Of the great mountains, with the light 
Of the sweet heavens upon thy face, 

Lake of the Northland ! keep thy dowei 
Of beauty still, and while above 

Thy solemn mountains speak of power, 
Be thou the mirror of God's love. 



THE HERMIT OF THE THEBAID. 203 



THE HERMIT OF THE THEBAID. 



O, strong, upwelling prayers of faith, 
From inmost founts of life ye start — 

The spirit's pulse, the vital breath 
Of soul and heart ! 

From pastoral toil, from traffic's din, 
Alone, in crowds, at home, abroad, 

Unheard of man, ye enter in 
The ear of God. 

Ye brook no forced and measured tasks, 
Nor weary rote, nor formal chains ; 

The simple heart, that freely asks 
In love, obtains. 

For man, the living temple is : 
The mercy-seat and cherubim, 

And all the holy mysteries, 
He bears with him. 

And most avails the prayer of love, 
Which, wordless, shapes itself in deeds, 

And wearies Heaven for naught above 
Our common needs. 

Which brings to God's all-perfect will 
That trust of his undoubting child, 

Whereby all seeming good and ill 
Are reconciled. 

And, seeking not for special signs 

Of favor, is content to fall 
Within the providence which shines 

And rains on all. 



204 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Alone, the Thebaic! hermit leaned 
At noontime o'er the sacred word. 

Was it an angel or a fiend 
Whose voice he heard ? 

It broke the desert's hush of awe, 
A human utterance, sweet and mild ; 

And, looking up, the hermit saw 
A little child. 

A child, with wonder-widened eyes, 
O'erawed and troubled by the sight 

Of hot, red sands, and brazen skies, 
And anchorite. 

" What dost thou here, poor man ? No shade 
Of cool, green doums, nor grass, nor well, 

Nor corn, nor vines." The hermit said : 
"With God I dwell. 

" Alone with Him in this great calm, 
I live not by the outward sense ; 

My Nile his love, my sheltering palm 
His providence." 

The child gazed round him. " Does God live 
Here only ? — where the desert's rim 

Is green with corn, at morn and eve, 
We pray to Him. 

" My brother tills beside the Nile 
His little field : beneath the leaves 

My sisters sit and spin the while, 
My mother weaves. 

" And when the millet's ripe heads fall, 
And all the bean-field hangs in pod, 

My mother smiles, and says that aU 
Are gifts from God. 



THE HERMIT OF THE THEBAID. 205 

" And when to share our evening meal, 
She calls the stranger at the door, 

She says God fills the hands that deal 
Food to the poor." 

Adown the hermit's wasted cheeks 
Glistened the flow of human tears ; 

" Dear Lord ! " he said, " Thy angel speaks, 
Thy servant hears." 

Within his arms the child he took, 

And thought of home and life with men ; 

And all his pilgrim feet forsook 
Returned again. 

The palmy shadows cool and long, 

The eyes that smiled through lavish locks, 

Home's cradle-hymn and harvest-song, 
And bleat of flocks. 

" O, child ! " he said, " thou teachest me 
There is no place where God is not ; 

That love will make, where'er it be, 
A holy spot." 

He rose from off the desert sand, 

And, leaning on his staff of thorn, 
Went, with the young child, hand in hand, 

Like night with morn. 

They crossed the desert's burning line, 
And heard the palm-tree's rustling fan, 

The Nile-bird's cry, the low of kine, 
And voice of man. 

Unquestioning, his childish guide 

He followed as the small hand led 
To where a woman, gentle-eyed, 

Her distaff fed. 



206 MISCELLANEOUS. 

She rose, she clasped her truant boy, 
She thanked the stranger with her eyes ; 

The hermit gazed in doubt and joy 
And dumb surprise. 

And, lo ! — with sudden warmth and light 
A tender memory thrilled his frame ; 

New-born, the world-lost anchorite 
A man became. 

" O, sister of El Zara's race, 

Behold me ! — had we not one mother ? " 
She gazed into the stranger's face ; — 

" Thou art my brother ? " 

" O, kin of blood !— Thy life of use 
And patient trust is more than mine ; 

And wiser than the gray recluse 
This child of thine. 

" For, taught of him whom God hath sent, 
That toil is praise, and love Is prayer, 

I come, life's cares and pains content 
With thee to share." 

Even as his foot the threshold crossed, 
The hermit's better life began ; 

Its holiest saint the Thebaid lost, 
And found a man ! 



BURNS. 

ON RECEIVING A SPRIG 0¥ HEATHER IN BLOSSOM. 

No more these simple flowers belong 
To Scottish maid and lover ; 

Sown in the common soil of song, 
They bloom the wide world over. 



BURNS. 207 

In smiles and tears, in sun and showers, 

The minstrel and the heather, 
The deathless singer and the flowers 

He sang of live together. 

Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns ! 

The moorland flower and peasant ! 
How, at their mention, memory turns 

Her pages old and pleasant ! 

The gray sky wears again its gold 

And purple of adorning, 
And manhood's noonday shadows hold 

The dews of boyhood's morning. 

The dews that washed the dust and soil 

From off the wings of pleasure, 
The sky, that flecked the ground of toil 

With golden threads of leisure. 

I call to mind the summer day, 

The early harvest mowing, 
The sky with sun and clouds at play, 

And flowers with breezes blowing. 

I hear the blackbird in the corn, 

The locust in the haying ; 
And, like the fabled hunter's horn, 

Old tunes my heart is playing. 

How oft that day, with fond delay, 

I sought the maple's shadow, 
And sang with Burns the hours away, 

Forgetful of the meadow ! 

Bees hummed, birds twittered, over head 

I heard the squirrels leaping, 
The good dog listened while I read, 

And wagged his tail in keeping. 



208 MISCELLANEOUS. 

I "watched him while in sportive mood 
I read " The Twa Dogs' " story, 

And half believed he understood 
The poet's allegory. 

Sweet day, sweet songs ! — The golden hou 
Grew brighter for that singing, 

From brook and bird and meadow flowers 
A dearer welcome bringing. 

New light on home-seen Nature beamed, 

New glory over Woman ; 
And daily life and duty seemed 

No longer poor and common. 

I woke to find the simple truth 

Of fact and feeling better 
Than all the dreams that held my youth 

A still repining debtor : 

That Nature gives her handmaid, Art, 
The themes of sweet discoursing ; 

The tender idyls of the heart 
In every tongue rehearsing. 

Why dream of lands of gold and pearl 

Of loving knight and lady, 
When farmer boy and barefoot girl 

Were wandering there already ? 

I saw through all familiar things 

The romance underlying ; 
The joys and griefs that plume the wings 

Of Fancy skyward flying. 

I saw the same blithe day return, 

The same sweet fall of even, 
That rose on wooded Craigie-burn, 

And sank on crystal Devon. 



209 



I matched with Scotland's heathery hilla 
The sweet-brier and the clover ; 

With Ayr and Doon, my native rills, 
Their wood-hymns chanting over. 

O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen, 

I saw the Man uprising ; 
No longer common or unclean, 

The child of God's baptizing ! 

With clearer eyes I saw the worth 

Of life among the lowly ; 
The Bible at his Cotter's hearth 

Had made my own more holy. 

And, if at times an evil strain, 

To lawless love appealing, 
Broke in upon the sweet refrain 

Of pure and healthful feeling, 

It died upon the eye and ear, 

No inward answer gaining ; 
No heart had I to see or hear 

The discord and the staining. 

Let those who never erred forget 
His worth, in vain bewailings; 

Sweet Soul of Song ! — I own my debt 
Uncancelled by his failings ! 

Lament who will the ribald line 
Which tells his lapse from duty, 

How kissed the maddening lips of wine 
Or wanton ones of beauty ; 

But think, while falls that shade between 
The erring one and Heaven, 

That he who loved like Magdalen, 

Like her may be forgiven. 
3L. n. 14 



210 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Not his the song whose thunderous chime 

Eternal echoes render — 
The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme, 

And Milton's starry splendor ! 

But who his human heart has laid 

To Nature's bosom nearer ? 
Who sweetened toil like him, or paid 

To love a tribute dearer ? 

Through all his tuneful art, how strong 

The human feeling gushes ! 
The very moonlight of his song 

Is warm with smiles and blushes ! 

Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, 
So " Bonnie Doon" but tarry ; 

Blot out the Epic's stately rhyme, 
But spare his Highland Mary ! 



WILLIAM FORSTER.21 

The years are many since his hand 

Was laid upon my head, 
Too weak and young to understand 

The serious words he said. 

Yet, often now the good man's look 
Before me seems to swim, 

As if some inward feeling took 
The outward guise of him. 

As if, in passion's heated war, 
Or near temptation's charm, 

Through him the low-voiced monitor 
Forewarned me of the harm. 



WILLIAM FORSTER. 2H 

Stranger and pilgrim ! — from that day 

Of meeting, first and last, 
Wherever Duty's pathway lay, 

His reverent steps have passed. 

The poor to feed, the lost to seek, 

To proffer life to death, 
Hope to the erring — to the weak 

The strength of his own faith. 

To plead the captive's right ; remove 

The sting of hate from Law ; 
And soften in the fire of love 

The hardened steel of War. 

He walked the dark world, in the mild, 

Still guidance of the Light ; 
In tearful tenderness a child, 

A strong man in the right. 

From what great perils, on his way, 

He found, in prayer, release ; 
Through what abysmal shadows lay 

His pathway unto peace, 

God knoweth : we could only see 
The tranquil strength he gained ; 

The bondage lost in liberty, 
The fear in love unfeigned. 

And I — my youthful fancies grown 

The habit of the man, 
Whose field of life by angels sown 

The wilding vines o'erran — 

Low bowed in silent gratitude, 

My manhood's heart enjoys 
That reverence for the pure and good 

Which blessed the dreaming boy's. 



212 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Still shines the light of holy lives 
Like star-beams over doubt ; 

Each sainted memory, Christlike, drives 
Some dark possession out. 

O friend ! O brother ! not in vain 

Thy life so calm and true, 
The silver dropping of the rain, 

The fall of summer dew ! 

How many burdened hearts have prayed 
Their lives like thine might be ! 

But more shall pray henceforth for aid 
To lay them down like thee. 

"With weary hand, yet steadfast will, 

In old age as in youth, 
Thy Master found thee sowing still 

The good seed of his truth. 

As on thy task-field closed the day . 

In golden-skied decline, 
His angel met thee on the way, 

And lent his arm to thine. 

Thy latest care for man — thy last 
Of earthly thought a prayer — 

O, who thy mantle, backward cast, 
Is worthy now to wear ? 

Methinks the mound which marks thy bed 
Might bless our land and save, 

As rose, of old, to life the dead 
Who touched the prophet's grave ! 



BANTOUL. 213 



RANTOUL.32 



One day, along the electric wire 
His manly word for Freedom sped ; 

We came next morn : that tongue of fire 
Said only, " He who spake is dead ! " 

Dead ! while his voice was living yet, 
In echoes round the pillared dome ! 

Dead ! while his blotted page lay wet 
With themes of state and loves of home ! 

Dead ! in that crowning grace of time, 
That triumph of life's zenith hour ! 

Dead ! while we watched his manhood's prime 
Break from the slow bud into flower ! 



While the mean thousands yet drew breath ; 
How deepened, through that dread surprise, 
The mystery and the awe of death ! 

From the high place whereon our votes 
Had borne him, clear, calm, earnest, fell 

His first words, like the prelude notes 
Of some great anthem yet to swell. 

We seemed to see our flag unfurled, 
Our champion waiting in his place 

For the last battle of the world — 
The Armageddon of the race. 

Through him we hoped to speak the word 
Which wins the freedom of a land ; 

And lift, for human right, the sword 
Which dropped from Hampden's dying hand. 



214 MISCELLANEOUS. 

For he had sat at Sidney's feet, 

And walked with Pym and Vane apart ; 

And, through the centuries, felt the beat 
Of Freedom's march in Cromwell's heart. 

He knew the paths the worthies held, 
Where England's best and wisest trod : 

And, lingering, drank the springs that welled 
Beneath the touch of Milton's rod. 

No wild enthusiast of the right, 

Self-poised and clear, he showed alway 

The coolness of his northern night, 
The ripe repose of autumn's day. 

His steps were slow, yet forward still 

He pressed where others paused or failed ; 

The calm star clomb with constant will — 
The restless meteor flashed and paled ! 

Skilled in its subtlest wile, he knew 
And owned the higher ends of Law; 

Still rose majestic on his view 

The awful Shape the schoolman saw. 

Her home the heart of God ; her voice 
The choral harmonies whereby 

The stars, through all their spheres, rejoice. 
The rhythmic rule of earth and sky ! 

We saw his great powers misapplied 
To poor ambitions ; yet, through all, 

We saw him take the weaker side, 

And right the wronged, and free the thralL 

Now, looking o'er the frozen North 
For one like him in word and act, 

To call her old, free spirit forth, 
And give her faith the life of fact — 



RANTOUL. 215 

To break her party bonds of shame, 

And labor with the zeal of him 
To make the Democratic name 

Of Liberty the synonym — 

We sweep the land from hill to strand, 
We seek the strong, the wise, the brave, 

And, sad of heart, return to stand 
In silence by a new-made grave ! 

There, where his breezy hills of home 

Look out upon his sail-white seas, 
The sounds of winds and waters come, 

And shape themselves to words like these : 

" Why, murmuring, mourn that he, whose powef 

Was lent to Party over long, 
Heard the still whisper at the hour 

He set his foot on Party wrong ? 

" The human life that closed so well 

No lapse of folly now can stain ; 
The lips whence Freedom's protest fell 

No meaner thought can now profane. 

" Mightier than living voice his grave 

That lofty protest utters o'er : 
Through roaring wind and smiting wave 

It speaks his hate of wrong once more. 

" Men of the North ! your weak regret 

Is wasted here ; arise and pay 
To freedom and to him your debt, 

By following where he led the way ! " 



216 MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE DREAM OF PIO NONO. 

It chanced, that while the pious troops of France 
Fought in the crusade Pio Nono preached, 
What time the holy Bourbons stayed his hands 
(The Hur and Aaron meet for such a Moses), 
Stretched forth from Naples towards rebellious 

Rome 
To bless the ministry of Oudinot, 
And sanctify his iron homilies 
And sharp persuasions of the bayonet, 
That the great pontiff fell asleep, and dreamed. 

He stood by Lake Tiberias, in the sun 
Of the bright Orient ; and beheld the lame, 
The sick, and blind, kneel at the Master's feet, 
And rise up whole. And, sweetly over all, 
Dropping the ladder of their hymn of praise 
From heaven to earth, in silver rounds of song, 
He heard the blessed angels sing of peace, 
Good-will to man, and glory to the Lord. 

Then one, with feet unshod, and leathern face 
Hardened and darkened by fierce summer suns 
And hot winds of the desert, closer drew 
His fisher's haick, and girded up his loins, 
And spake, as one who had authority : 
" Come thou with me." 

Lake-side and eastern sky 
And the sweet song of angels passed away, 
And, with a dream's alacrity of change, 
The priest, and the swart fisher by his side, 
Beheld the Eternal City lift its domes 
And solemn fanes and monumental pomp 
Above the waste Campagna. On the hills 
The blaze of burning villas rose and fell, 



THE DREAM OF PIO NONO. 217 

And momently the mortar's iron throat 

Roared from the trenches ; and, within the walls, 

Sharp crash of shells, low groans of human pain, 

Shout, drum beat, and the clanging larum-bell, 

And tramp of hosts, sent up a mingled sound, 

Half wail and half defiance. As they passed 

The gate of San Pancrazio, human blood 

Flowed ankle high about them, and dead men 

Choked the long street with gashed and gory piles — 

A ghastly barricade of mangled flesh, 

From which, at times, quivered a living hand, 

And white lips moved and moaned. A father tore 

His gray hairs, by the body of his son, 

In frenzy ; and his fair young daughter wept 

On his old bosom. Suddenly a flash 

Clove the thick sulphurous air, and man and maid 

Sank, crushed and mangled by the shattering shell. 

Then spake the Galilean : " Thou hast seen 
The blessed Master and his works of love ; 
Look now on thine ! Hear'st thou the angels sing 
Above this open hell ? Thou God's high-priest ! 
Thou the Vicegerent of the Prince of Peace ! 
Thou the successor of his chosen ones ! 
I, Peter, fisherman of Galilee, 
In the dear Master's name, and for the love 
Of his true Church, proclaim thee Antichrist, 
Alien and separate from his holy faith 
Wide as the difference between death and life, 
The hate of man and the great love of God ! 
Hence, and repent ! " 

Thereat the pontiff woke, 
Trembling, and muttering o'er his fearful dream. 
" What means he ? " cried the Bourbon. " Noth- 
ing more 
Than that your majesty hath all too well 
Catered for your poor guests, and that, in sooth, 
The Holy Father's supper troubleth him," 
Said Cardinal Antonelli, with a smile. 



218 MISCELLANEOUS. 



TAULER. 



Tauler, the preacher, walked, one autumn day ; 
Without the walls of Strasburg, by the Rhine, 
Pondering the solemn Miracle of Life ; 
As one who, wandering in a starless night, 
Feels, momently, the jar of unseen waves, 
And hears the thunder of an unknown sea, 
Breaking along an unimagined shore. 

And as he walked he prayed. Even the same 
Old prayer with which, for half a score of years, 
Morning, and noon, and evening, lip and heart 
Had groaned : " Have pity upon me, Lord ! 
Thou seest, while teaching others, I am blind. 
Send me a man who can direct my steps ! " 

Then, as he mused, he heard along his path 
A sound as of an old man's staff among 
The dry, dead linden-leaves ; and, looking up, 
He saw a stranger, weak, and poor, and old. 

" Peace be unto thee, father ! " Tauler said ; 
" God give thee a good day! " The old man raised 
Slowly his calm blue eyes. " I thank thee, son ; 
But all my days are good, and none are ill." 

Wondering thereat, the preacher spake again ; 
" God give thee happy life." The old man smiled 
" I never am unhappy." 

Tauler laid 
His hand upon the stranger's coarse gray sleeve : 
" Tell me, O father, what thy strange words mean. 
Surely man's days are evil, and his life 
Sad as the grave it leads to." " Nay, my son, 
Our times are in God's hands, and all our days 



TAULER. 219 

Are as our needs : for shadow as for sun, 

For cold as heat, for want as wealth, alike 

Our thanks are due, since that is best which is ; 

And that which is not, sharing not his life, 

Is evil only as devoid of good. 

And for the happiness of which I spake, 

I find it in submission to his will, 

And calm trust in the holy Trinity 

Of Knowledge, Goodness, and Almighty Power." 

Silently wondering, for a little space, 
Stood the great preacher ; then he spake as one 
Who, suddenly grappling with a haunting thought 
Which long has followed, whispering through the 

dark 
Strange terrors, drags it, shrieking, into light : 
" What if God's will consign thee hence to Hell ? n 

" Then," said the stranger, cheerily, " be it so. 
What Hell may be I know not ; this I know — 
I cannot lose the presence of the Lord ; 
One arm, Humility, takes hold upon 
His dear Humanity ; the other, Love, 
Clasps his Divinity. So where I go 
He goes ; and better fire-walled Hell with Him 
Than golden-gated Paradise without." 

Tears sprang in Tauler's eyes. A sudden light, 
Like the first ray which fell on chaos, clove 
Apart the shadow wherein he had walked 
Darkly at noon. And, as the strange old man 
Went his slow way, until his silver hair 
Set like the white moon where the hills of vine 
Slope to the Rhine, he bowed his head and said : 
" My prayer is answered. God hath sent the man 
Long sought, to teach me, by his simple trust, 
Wisdom the weary schoolmen never knew." 

So, entering with a changed and cheerful step 



220 MISCELLANEOUS. 

The city gates, he saw, far down the street, 

A mighty shadow break the light of noon, 

Which tracing backward till its airy lines 

Hardened to stony plinths, he raised his eyes 

O'er broad facade and lofty pediment, 

O'er architrave and frieze and sainted niche, 

Up the stone lace-work chiselled by the wise 

Erwin of Steinbach, dizzily up to where 

In the noon-brightness the great Minster's tower, 

Jewelled with sunbeams on its mural crown, 

Rose like a visible prayer. " Behold ! " he said, 

11 The stranger's faith made plain before mine eyes 

As yonder tower outstretches to the earth 

The dark triangle of its shade alone 

When the clear day is shining on its top, 

So, darkness in the pathway of Man's life 

Is but the shadow of God's providence, 

By the great Sun of Wisdom cast thereon ; 

And what is dark below is light in Heaven." 



LINES 



SUGGESTED BT READING A STATE PAPER, WHEREIN THE HIGHER 
LAW IS INVOKED TO SUSTAIN THE LOWER ONE. 



A pious magistrate ! sound his praise throughout 
The wondering churches. Who shall henceforth 
doubt 
That the long-wished millennium draweth nigh ? 
Sin in high places has become devout, 

Tithes mint, goes painful-faced, and prays its lie 
Straight up to Heaven, and calls it piety ! 

The pirate, watching from his bloody deck 

The weltering galleon, heavy with the gold 
Of Acapulco, holding death in check 



THE VOICES. 221 

While prayers are said, brows crossed, and beads 
are told — 
The robber, kneeling where the wayside cross 
On dark Abruzzo tells of life's dread loss 
From his own carbine, glancing still abroad 
For some new victim, offering thanks to God ! — 

Rome, listening at her altars to the cry 
Of midnight Murder, while her hounds of hell 
Siour France, from baptized cannon and holy bell 
And thousand-throated priesthood, loud and high, 
Pealing Te Deums to the shuddering sky, 
" Thanks to the Lord who giveth victory ! " 
What prove these, but that crime was ne'er so black 
As ghostly cheer and pious thanks to lack ? 
Satan is modest. At Heaven's door he lays 
His evil offspring, and, in scriptural phrase 
And saintly posture, gives to God the praise 
And honor of the monstrous progeny. 
What marvel, then, in our own time to see 
His old devices smoothly acted o'er — 
Official piety, locking fast the door 
Of Hope against three million souls of men — 
Brothers, God's children, Christ's redeemed — and 

then, 
With uprolled eyeballs and on bended knee, 
Whining a prayer for help to hide the key ! 



THE VOICES. 

14 Why urge the long, unequal fight, 
Since Truth has fallen in the street, 

Or lift anew the trampled light, 

Quenched by the heedless million's feet ? 

" Give o'er the thankless task ; forsake 
The fools who know not ill from good ; 

Eat, drink, enjoy thy own, and take 
Thine ease among the multitude. 



222 MISCELLANEOUS. 

"Live out thyself; with others share 
Thy proper life no more ; assume 

The unconcern of sun and air, 

For life or death, or blight or bloom. 

" The mountain pine looks calmly on 
The fires that scourge the plains below, 

Nor heeds the eagle in the sun 

The small birds piping in the snow ! 

" The world is God's, not thine ; let him 
Work out a change, if change must be ; 

The hand that planted best can trim 
And nurse the old unfruitful tree." 

So spake the Tempter, when the light 
Of sun and stars had left the sky, 

I listened, through the cloud and night, 
And heard, methought, a voice reply : 

" Thy task may well seem over-hard, 
Who scatterest in a thankless soil 

Thy life as seed, with no reward 
Save that which Duty gives to Toil. 

" Not wholly is thy heart resigned 
To Heaven's benign and just decree, 

Which, linking thee with all thy kind, 
Transmits their joys and griefs to thee. 

" Break off that sacred chain, and turn 
Back on thyself thy love and care ; 

Be thou thine own mean idol, burn 

Faith, Hope, and Trust, thy children, there. 

" Released from that fraternal law 

Which shares the common bale and bliss, 

No sadder lot could Folly draw, 

Or Sin provoke from Fate, than this. 



THE VOICES. 223 

" The meal unshared is food unblest ; 

Thou hoard'st in vain what love should spend ; 
Self-ease is pain ; thy only rest 

Is labor for a worthy end. 

"A toil that gains with what it yields, 

And scatters to its own increase, 
And hears, while sowing outward fields, 

The harvest-song of inward peace. 

" Free-lipped the liberal streamlets run, 
Free shines for all the healthful ray ; 

The still pool stagnates in the sun, 
The lurid earth-fire haunts decay ! 

" What is it that the crowd requite 

Thy love with hate, thy truth with lies ? 

And but to faith, and not to sight, 
The walls of Freedom's temple rise ? 

" Yet do thy work ; it shall succeed 

In thine or in another's day ; 
And, if denied the victor's meed, 

Thou shalt not lack the toiler's pay. 

" Faith shares the future's promise ; Love's 

Self-offering is a triumph won ; 
And each good thought or action moves 

The dark world nearer to the sun. 

u Then faint not, falter not, nor plead 
Thy weakness ; truth itself is strong ; 

The lion's strength, the eagle's speed, 
Are not alone vouchsafed to wrong. 

" Thy nature, which, through fire and flood, 
To place or gain finds out its way, 

Hath power to seek the highest good, 
And duty's holiest call obey ! 



824 MISCELLANEOUS. 

" Strivest thou in darkness ? — Foes without 
In league with traitor thoughts within ; 

Thy night-watch kept with trembling Doubt 
And pale Remorse the ghost of Sin ? — 

" Hast thou not, on some week of storm, 
Seen the sweet Sabbath breaking fair, 

And cloud and shadow, sunlit, form 
The curtains of its tent of prayer ? 

** So, haply, when thy task shall end, 
The wrong shall lose itself in right, 

And all thy week-day darkness blend 
With the long Sabbath of the light ! " 



THE HERO. 

" O ! for a knight like Bayard, 

Without reproach or fear ; 
My light glove on his casque of steel, 

My love-knot on his spear ! 

" O ! for the white plume floating 
Sad Zutphen's field above — 

The lion heart in battle, 
The woman's heart in love ! 

" O ! that man once more were maniy, 
Woman's pride, and not her scorn ; 

That once more the pale young mother 
Dared to boast ' a man is born ' ! 

" But, now life's slumberous current 
No sun-bowed cascade wakes ; 

No tall, heroic manhood 
The level d'dness breaks. 



THE HERO. 225 

* O ! for a knight like Bayard, 

Without reproach or fear ! 
My light glove on his casque of steel, 

My love-knot on his spear ! " 

Then I said, my own heart throbbing 
To the time her proud pulse beat, 

" Life hath its regal natures yet — 
True, tender, brave, and sweet ! 

" Smile not, fair unbeliever ! 

One man, at least, I know, 
Who might wear the crest of Bayard, 

Or Sidney's plume of snow. 

" Once, when over purple mountains 

Died away the Grecian sun, 
And the far Cyllenian ranges 

Paled and darkened, one by one — 

" Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder, 

Cleaving all the quiet sky, 
And against his sharp steel lightnings 

Stood the Suliote but to die. 

" Woe for the weak and halting ! 

The crescent blazed behind 
A curving line of sabres, 

Like fire before the wind ! 

" Last to fly and first to rally, 

Kode he of whom I speak, 
When, groaning in his bridle-path 

Sank down a wounded Greek. 

u With the rich Albanian costume 

Wet with many a ghastly stain 
Gazing on earth and sky as one 

Who might not gaze again ! 
TOL. n. 15 



226 MISCELLANEOUS. 

" He looked forward to the mountains, 

Back on foes that never spare, 
Then flung him from his saddle, 

And placed the stranger there. 

" 'Allah ! hu ! ' Through flashing sabres, 

Through a stormy hail of lead, 
The good Thessalian charger 

Up the slopes of olives sped. 

" Hot spurred the turbaned riders ; 

He almost felt thejr breath, 
Where a mountain stream rolled darkly dowi 

Between the hills and death. 

" One brave and manful struggle — 

He gained the solid land, 
And the cover of the mountains, 

And the carbines of his band ! " 

" It was very great and noble," 
Said the moist-eyed listener then, 

" But one brave deed makes no hero ; 
Tell me what he since hath been ! " 

" Still a brave and generous manhood, 

Still an honor without stain, 
In the prison of the Kaiser, 

By the barricades of Seine. 

" But dream not helm and harness 

The sign of valor true ; 
Peace hath higher tests of manhood 

Than battle ever knew. 

" Wouldst know him now ? Behold him, 

The Cadmus of the blind, 
Giving the dumb lip language, 

The idiot clay a mind. 



MY DREAM. 227 

" Walking his round of duty 

Serenely day by day, 
With the strong man's hand of labor 

And childhood's heart of play. 

" True as the knights of story, 

Sir Lancelot and his peers, 
Brave in his calm endurance 

As they in tilt of spears. 

"As waves in stillest waters, 

As stars in noonday skies, 
All that wakes to noble action 

In his noon of calmness lies. 

" Wherever outraged Nature 

Asks word or action bravo, 
Wherever struggles labor, 

Wherever groans a slave — 

" Wherever rise the peoples, 

Wherever sink a throne, 
The throbbing heart of Freedom finds 

An answer in his own. 

" Knight of a better era, 

Without reproach or fear! 
Said I not well that Bayards 

And Sidneys still are here ? " 



MY DREAM. 

In my dream, mcthought I trod, 
Yesternight, a mountain road ; 
Narrow as Al Sirat's span, 
High as eaglet flight, it ran. 



228 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Overhead, a roof of cloud 
With its weight of thunder bowed ; 
Underneath, to left and right, 
Blankness and abysmal night. 

Here and there a wild-flower blushed, 
Now and then a bird-song gushed ; 
Now and then, through rifts of shade, 
Stars shone out, and sunbeams played, 

But the goodly company, 
Walking in that path with me, 
One by one the brink o'erslid, 
One by one the darkness hid. 

Some with wailing and lament, 
Some with cheerful courage went ; 
But, of all who smiled or mourned, 
Never one to us returned. 

Anxiously, with eye and ear, 
Questioning that shadow drear 
Never hand in token stirred, 
Never answering voice I heard ! 

Steeper, darker ! — lo ! I felt 
From my feet the pathway melt. 
Swallowed by the black despair, 
And the hungry jaws of air, 

Past the stony-throated caves, 
Strangled by the wash of waves, 
Past the splintered crags, I sank 
On a green and flowery bank- 
Soft as fall of thistle-down, 
Lightly as a cloud is blown, 
Soothingly as childhood pressed 
To the bosom of its rest. 



MY DREAM. 229 

Of the sharp-horned rocks instead, 
Green the grassy meadows spread, 
Bright with waters singing by 
Trees that propped a golden sky. 

Painless, trustful, sorrow-free, 
Old lost faces welcomed me, 
With whose sweetness of content 
Still expectant hope was blent. 

Waking while the dawning gray 
Slowly brightened into day, 
Pondering that vision fled, 
Thus unto myself I said : 

" Steep, and hung with clouds of strife, 
Is our narrow path of life ; 
And our death the dreaded fall 
Through the dark, awaiting all. 

" So, with painful steps we climb 
Up the dizzy ways of time, 
Ever in the shadow shed 
By the forecast of our dread. 

" Dread of mystery solved alone, 
Of the untried and unknown ; 
Yet the end thereof may seem 
Like the falling of my dream. 

" And this heart-consuming care, 
All our fears of here or there, 
Change and absence, loss and death, 
Prove but simple lack of faith." 

Thou, O Most Compassionate ! 
Who didst stoop to our estate, 
Drinking of the cup we drain, 
Treading in our path of pain — 



130 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Through the doubt and mystery, 
Grant to us thy steps to see, 
And the grace to draw from thence 
Larger hope and confidence. 

Show thy vacant tomb, and let, 
As of old, the angels sit, 
Whispering, by its open door : 
" Fear not ! He hath gone before ! ' 



THE BAREFOOT BOY. 

Blessings on thee, little man, 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
And thy merry whistled tunes ; 
With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 
With the sunshine on thy face, 
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace : 
From my heart I give thee joy — 
I was once a barefoot boy ! 
Prince thou art — the grown-up man 
Only is republican. 
Let the million-dollared ride ! 
Barefoot, trudging at his side, 
Thou hast more than he can buy, 
In the reach of ear and eye — 
Outward sunshine, inward joy : 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 

O, for boyhood's painless play, 
Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools, 
Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
Of the wild-flower's time and place, 



THE BAREFOOT BOY. 231 

Flight of fowl and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 
How the tortoise bears his shell, 
How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
And the ground-mole sinks his well ; 
How the robin feeds her young, 
How the oriole's nest is hung ; 
Where the whitest lilies blow, 
Where the freshest berries grow, 
Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; 
Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
Mason of his walls of clay, 
And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans ! — 
For, eschewing books and tasks, 
Nature answers all he asks ; 
Hand in hand with her he walks, 
Face to face with her he talks, 
Part and parcel of her joy,- — 
Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 

O, for boyhood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw, 
Me, their master, waited for. 
I was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees ; . 
For my sport the squirrel played, 
Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 
For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
Laughed the brook for my delight 
Through the day and through the night, 
Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talked with me from fall to fall ; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
Mine, on bending orchard trees, 



232 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Apples of Hesperldes ! 
Still, as my horizon grew, 
Larger grew my riches too ; 
All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 

O, for festal dainties spread, 
Like my bowl of milk and bread, — 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 
On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
O'er me, like a regal tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
While for music came the play 
Of the pied frogs' orchestra ; 
And, to light the noisy choir, 
Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
I was monarch : pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy ! 

Cheerily, then, my little man, 
Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! 
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat : 
All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride, 
Loose the freedom of the sod, 
Like a colt's for work be shod, 
Made to tread the mills of toil, 
Up and down in ceaseless moil : 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground ; 
Happy if they sink not in 



FLOWERS IX WINTER. 233 

Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 



FLOWERS IN WINTER. 



PAINTED UPON A PORTE LIVRE. 

How strange to greet, this frosty morn, 
In graceful counterfeit of flowers, 

These children of the meadows, born 
Of sunshine and of showers ! 

How well the conscious wood retains 
The pictures of its flower-sown home — 

The lights and shades, the purple stains, 
And golden hues of bloom ! 

It was a happy thought to bring 
To the dark season's frost and rime 

This painted memory of spring, 
This dream of summer time. 

Our hearts are lighter for its sake, 
Our fancy's age renews its youth, 

And dim-remembered fictions take 
The guise of present truth. 

A wizard of the Merrimack — 
So old ancestral legends say — 

Could call green leaf and blossom back 
To frosted stem and spray. 

The dry logs of the cottage wall, 

Beneath his touch, put out their leaves ; 

The clay-bound swallow, at his call, 
Played round the icy eaves. 



234 MISCELLANEOUS. 

The settler saw his oaken flail 

Take bud, and bloom before his eyes ; 

From frozen pools he saw the pale, 
Sweet summer lilies rise. 

To their old homes, by man profaned, 
Came the sad dryads, exiled long, 

And through their leafy tongues complained 
Of household use and wrong. 

The beechen platter sprouted wild, 
The pipkin wore its old-time green ; 

The cradle o'er the sleeping child 
Became a leafy screen. 

Haply our gentle friend hath met, 
While wandering in her sylvan quest, 

Haunting his native woodlands yet, 
That Druid of the West ;— 

And, while the dew on leaf and flower 
Glistened in moonlight clear and still, 

Learned the dusk wizard's spell of power, 
And caught his trick of skill. 

But welcome, be it new or old, 

The gift which makes the day more bright 
And paints upon the ground of cold 

And darkness, warmth and light ! 

Without is neither gold nor green ; 

Within, for birds, the birch-logs sing; 
Yet, summer-like, we sit between 

The autumn and the spring. 

The one, with bridal blush of rose, 

And sweetest breath of woodland balm, 

And one whose matron lips unclose 
In smiles of saintly calm. 



THE RENDITION. 235 

Fill soft and deep, O winter snow ! 

The sweet azalia's oaken dells, 
And hide the bank where roses blow, 

And swing the azure bells ! 

O'erlay the amber violet's leaves, 
The purple aster's brookside home, 

Guard all the flowers her pencil gives 
A life beyond their bloom. 

And she, when spring comes round again, 
By greening slope and singing flood 

Shall wander, seeking, not in vain, 
Her darlings of the wood. 



THE RENDITION. 

I heard the train's shrill whistle call, 
I saw an earnest look beseech, 
And rather by that look than speech 

My neighbor told me all. 

And, as I thought of Liberty 

Marched hand-cuffed down that sworded 
The solid earth beneath my feet 

Reeled fluid as the sea. 

I felt a sense of bitter loss — 

Shame, tearless grief, and stifling wrath, 
And loathing fear, as if my path 

A serpent stretched across. 

All love of home, all pride of place, 
All generous confidence and trust, 
Sank smothering in that deep disgust 

And anguish of disgrace. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



Down on my native hills of June, 
And home's green quiet, hiding all, 
Fell sudden darkness like the fall 

Of midnight upon noon ! 

And Law, an unloosed maniac, strong, 

Blood-drunken, through the blackness trod, 
Hoarse-shouting in the ear of God 

The blasphemy of wrong. 

" O, Mother, from thy memories proud, 
Thy old renown, dear Commonwealth, 
Lend this dead air a breeze of health, 

And smite with stars this cloud. 

" Mother of Freedom, wise and brave, 
Rise awful in thy strength," I said ; 
Ah, me ! I spake but to the dead ; 
I stood upon her grave ! 
Sixth month, 1854. 



LINES, 

ON THE PASSAGE OF THE BILL TO PROTECT THE RIGHTS 
AND LIBERTIES OF THE PEOPLE OF THE STATS 
AGAINST THE FUGITIVE SLAVE ACT. 

I said I stood upon thy grave, 

My Mother State, when last the moon 
Of blossoms clomb the skies of June. 

And, scattering ashes on my head, 
I wore, undreaming of relief, 
The sackcloth of thy shame and grief. 

Again that moon of blossoms shines 
On leaf and flower and folded wing, 
And thou hast risen with the spring ! 



LINES. 237 

Once more thy strong maternal arms 
Are round about thy children flung — 
A lioness that guards her young ! 

No threat is on thy closed lips, 
But in thine eye a power to smite 
The mad wolf backward from its light. 

Southward the baffled robber's track 
Henceforth runs only ; hereaway, 
The fell lycanthrope finds no prey. 

Henceforth, within thy sacred gates, 
His first low howl shall downward draw 
The thunder of thy righteous law. 

Not mindless of thy trade and gain, 
But, acting on the wiser plan, 
Thou'rt grown conservative of man. 

So shalt thou clothe with life the hope, 
Dream-painted on the sightless eyes 
Of him who sang of Paradise — 

The vision of a Christian man, 
In virtue as in stature great, 
Embodied in a Christian State. 

And thou, amidst thy sisterhood 
Forbearing long, yet standing fast, 
Shalt win their grateful thanks at last ; 

When North and South shall strive no more, 
And all their feuds and fears be lost 
In Freedom's holy Pentecost. 

month, 1855. 



238 MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE FRUIT-GIFT. 

Last night, just as the tints of autumn's sky 
Of sunset faded from our hills and streams, 
I sat, vague listening, lapped in twilight dreams, 
To the leaf's rustle, and the cricket's cry. 
Then, like that basket, flush with summer fruit, 
Dropped by the angels at the Prophet's foot, 
Came, unannounced, a gift of clustered sweetness, 

Full-orbed, and glowing with the prisoned beams 
Of summery suns, and, rounded to completeness 
By kisses of the south wind and the dew. 
Thrilled with a glad surprise, methought I knew 
The pleasure of the homeward-turning Jew, 
When Eschol's clusters on his shoulders lay, 
Dropping their sweetness on his desert way. 

I said, " This fruit beseems no world of sin, 
Its parent vine, rooted in Paradise, 
O'ercrept the wall, and never paid the price 
Of the great mischief — an ambrosial tree, 
Eden's exotic, somehow smuggled in, 

To keep the thorns and thistles company." 
Perchance our frail, sad mother plucked in haste 

A single vine-slip as she passed the gate, 
Where the dread sword, alternate paled and 
burned, 
And the stern angel, pitying her fate, 
Forgave the lovely trespasser, and turned 
Aside his face of fire ; and thus the waste 
And fallen world hath yet its annual taste 
Of primal good, to prove of sin the cost, 
And show by one gleaned ear the mighty harvest 
lost. 



A MEMORY. 2J9 



A MEMORY. 



Here, while the loom of Winter weaves 
The shroud of flowers and fountains, 

I think of thee and Summer eves 
Among the Northern mountains. 

When thunder tolled the twilight's close, 
And winds the lake were rude on, 

And thou wert singing, Co! the Yowes, 
The bonny yowes of Cluden ! 

When, close and closer, hushing breath, 
Our circle narrowed round thee, 

And smiles and tears made up the wreath 
Wherewith our silence crowned thee ; 

And, strangers all, we felt the ties 

Of sisters and of brothers ; 
Ah ! whose of all those kindly eyes 

Now smile upon another's ? 

The sport of Time, who still apart 
The waifs of life is flinging ; 

! never more shall heart to heart 
Draw nearer for that singing ! 

Yet when the panes are frosty-starred, 
And twilight's fire is gleaming, 

1 hear the songs of Scotland's bard 

Sound softly through my dreaming ! 

A song that lends to winter snows . 

The glow of summer weather — 
Again I hear thee ca' the yowes 

To Cluden's hills of heather 1 



240 MISCELLANEOUS. 



TO C. S. 



If I have seemed more prompt to censure wrong 
Than praise the right ; if seldom to thine ear 
My voice hath mingled with the exultant cheer 
Borne upon all our Northern winds along ; 
If I have failed to join the fickle throng 
In wide-eyed wonder, that thou standest strong 
In victory, surprised in thee to find 
Brougham's scathing power with Canning's grace 

combined ; 
That he, for whom the ninefold Muses sang, 
From their twined arms a giant athlete sprang, 
Barbing the arrows of his native tongue 
With the spent shafts Latona's archer flung, 
To smite the Python of our land and time, 
Fell as the monster born of Crissa's slime, 
Like the blind bard who in Castalian springs 
Tempered the steel that clove the crest of kings, 
And on the shrine of England's freedom laid 
The gifts of Cumse and of Delphi's shade — 
Small need hast thou of words of praise from me. 
Thou knowest my heart, dear friend, and well 

canst guess 
That, even though silent, I have not the less 
Rejoiced to see thy actual life agree 
With the large future which I shaped for thee, 
When, years ago, beside the summer sea, 
White in the moon, we saw the long waves fall 
Baffled and broken from the rocky wall, 
That, to the menace of the brawling flood, 
Opposed alone its massive quietude, 
Calm as a fate ; with not a leaf nor vine 
Nor birch-spray trembling in the still moonshine, 
Crowning it like God's peace. I sometimes think 
That night-scene by the sea prophetical — 



THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS. 241 

(For nature speaks in symbols and in signs, 
And through her pictures human fate divines)— 
That rock, wherefrom we saw the billows sink 

In murmuring rout, uprising clear and tall 
In the white light of heaven, the type of one 
Who, momently by Error's host assailed, 
Stands strong as Truth, in greaves of granite 
mailed ; 

And, tranquil-fronted, listening over all 
Hie tumult, hears the angels say, Well done ! 



THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS. 

We cross the prairie as of old 
The pilgrims crossed the sea, 

To make the West, as they the East, 
The homestead of the free ! 

We go to rear a wall of men 
On Freedom's southern line 

And plant beside the cotton-tree 
The rugged Northern pine ! 

We're flowing from our native hills 

As our free rivers flow ; 
The blessing of our Mother-land 

Is on us as we go. 

We go to plant her common schools 
On distant prairie swells, 

And give the Sabbaths of the wild 
The music of her bells. 

Upbearing, like the Ark of old, 

The Bible in our van, 
We go to test the truth of God 

Against the fraud of man. 

VOL. II. 16 



242 MISCELLANEOUS. 

No pause, nor rest, save where the streams 

That feed the Kansas run, 
Save where our Pilgrim gonfalon 

Shall flout the setting sun ! 

We'll tread the prairie as of old 

Our fathers sailed the sea, 
And make the West, as they the East, 

The homestead of the free ! 



SONG OF SLAVES LN THE DESERTS 

Where are we going ? where are we going, 
Where are we going, Rubee ? 

Lord of peoples, lord of lands, 
Look across these shining sands, 
Through the furnace of the noon, 
Through the white light of the moon. 
Strong the Ghiblee wind is blowing, 
Strange and large the world is growing ! 
Speak and tell us where we are going, 
Where are we going, Rubee ? 

Bornou land was rich and good, 
Wells of water, fields of food, 
Dourra fields, and bloom of bean, 
And the palm-tree cool and green : 
Bornou land we see no longer, 
Here we thirst and here we hunger, 
Here the Moor-man smites in anger : 
Where are we going, Rubee ? 

When we went from Bornou land, 
We were like the leaves and sand, 
We were many, we are few ; 
Life has one, and death has two : 



LINES. 243 

Whitened bones our path are showing, 
Thou All-seeing, thou All-knowing ! 
Hear us, tell us, where are we going, 
Where are we going, Rubee ? 

Moons of marches from our eyes 
Bornou land behind us lies ; 
Stranger round us day by day 
Bends the desert circle gray ; 
Wild the waves of sand are flowing, 
Hot the winds above them blowing, — 
Lord of all things ! — where are we going ? 
Where are we going, Rubee ? 

We are weak, but Thou art strong ; 
Short our lives, but Thine is long ; 
We are blind, but Thou hast eyes ; 
We are fools, but Thou art wise ! 

Thou, our morrow's pathway knowing 
Through the strange world round us growing, 
Hear us, tell us wht-re are we going, 
Where are we going, Rubee ? 



LINES 



INSCRIBED TO FRIENDS UNDER ARREST FOR TREASON 
AGAINST THE SLAVE POWER. 

The age is dull and mean. Men creep, 
Not walk ; with blood too pale and tame 
To pay the debt they owe to shame ; 

Buy cheap, sell dear ; eat, drink, and sleep 
Down-pillowed, deaf to moaning want ; 

Pay tithes for soul-insurance ; keep 
Six days to Mammon, one to Cant. 



244 MISCELLANEOUS. 

In such a time, give thanks to God, 
That somewhat of the holy rage 
With which the prophets in their age 

On all its decent seemings trod, 
Has set your feet upon the lie, 

That man and ox and soul and clod 
Are market stock to sell and buy ! 

The hot words from your lips, my own, 
' To caution trained, might not repeat ; 

But, if some tares among the wheat 
Of generous thought and deed were sown, 

No common wrong provoked your zeal ; 
The silken gauntlet that is thrown 

In such a quarrel rings like steel. 

The brave old strife the fathers saw 
For Freedom calls for men again 
Like those who battled not in vain 

For England's Charter, Alfred's law ; 
And right of speech and trial just 

Wage in your name their ancient war 
With venal courts and perjured trust. 

God's ways seem dark, but, soon or late, 

They touch the shining hills of day ; 

The evil cannot brook delay, 
The good can well afford to wait. 

Give ermined knaves their hour of crime ; 
Ye have the future grand and great, 

The safe appeal of Truth to Time ! 



THE NEW EXODUS.24 

By fire and cloud, across the desert sand, 
And through the parted waves, 



THE NEW EXODUS. 245 

From their long bondage, with an outstretched hand, 
God led the Hebrew slaves ! 

Dead as the letter of the Pentateuch, 

As Egypt's statues cold, 
In the adytum of the sacred book 

Now stands that marvel old. 

" Lo, God is great ! " the simple Moslem says. 

We seek the ancient date, 
Turn the dry scroll, and make that living phrase 

A dead one : " God was great ! " 

And, like the Coptic monks by Mousa's wells, 

We dream of wonders past, 
Vague as the tales the wandering Arab tells, 

Each drowsier than the last. 

O fools and blind ! Above the Pyramids 

Stretches once more that hand, 
And tranced Egypt, from her stony lids, 

Flings back her veil of sand. 

And morning-smitten Memnon, singing, wakes ; 

And, listening by his Nile, 
O'er Amnion's grave and awful visage breaks 

A sweet and human smile. 

Not, as before, with hail and fire, and call 

Of death for midnight graves, 
But in the stillness of the noonday, fall 

The fetters of the slaves. 

No longer through the Red Sea, as of old, 

The bondmen walk dry shod ; 
Through human hearts, by love of Him controlled, 

Runs now that path of God ! 



246 MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE HASCHISH. 

Of all that Orient lands can vaunt 
Of marvels with our own competing, 

The strangest is the Haschish plant, 
And what will follow on its eating. 

What pictures to the taster rise, 

Of Dervish or of Almeh dances ! 
Of Eblis, or of Paradise, 

Set all aglow with Houri glances ! 

The poppy visions of Cathay, 

The heavy beer-trance of the Suabian ; 
The wizard lights and demon play 

Of nights Walpurgis and Arabian ! 

The Mollah and the Christian dog 

Change place in mad metempsychosis ; 

The Muezzin climbs the synagogue, 
The Rabbi shakes his beard at Moses ! 

The Arab by his desert well 

Sits choosing from some Caliph's daughters, 
And hears his single camel's bell 

Sound welcome to his regal quarters. 

The Koran's reader makes complaint 
Of Shitan dancing on and off it ; 

The robber offers alms, the saint 

Drinks Tokay and blasphemes the Prophet 1 

Such scenes that Eastern plant awakes ; 

But we have one ordained to beat it, 
The Haschish of the West, which makes 

Or fools or knaves of all who eat it. 



THE HASCHISH. 247 

The preacher eats, and straight appears 

His Bible in a new translation ; 
Its angels negro overseers, 

And Heaven itself a snug plantation ! 

The man of peace, about whose dreams 
The sweet millennial angels cluster, 

Tastes the mad weed, and plots and schemes, 
A raving Cuban filibuster ! 

The noisiest Democrat, with ease, 
It turns to Slavery's parish beadle ; 

The shrewdest statesman eats and sees 
Due southward point the polar needle. 

The Judge partakes, and sits ere long 
Upon his bench a railing blackguard ; 

Decides off-hand that right is wrong, 

And reads the ten commandments backward 

O, potent plant ! so rare a taste 
Has never Turk or Gentoo gotten ; 

The hempen Haschish of the East 
Is powerless to our Western Cotton ! 



BALLAD& 



BALLADS. 



MARY GARYIN. 

From the heart of Waumbek Methna, from the 
lake that never fails, 

Falls the Saco in the green lap of Conway's inter- 
vales ; 

There, in wild and virgin freshness, its waters foam 
and flow, 

As when Darby Field first saw them, two hundred 
years ago. 

But, vexed in all its seaward course with bridges, 
dams, and mills, 

How changed is Saco's stream, how lost its freedom 
of the hills, 

Since travelled Jocelyn, factor Vines, and stately 
Champernoon 

Heard on its banks the gray wolf's howl, the trum- 
pet of the loon ! 

With smoking axle hot with speed, with steeds of 

fire and steam, 
Wide-waked To-day leaves Yesterday behind him 

like a dream. 
Still, from the hurrying train of Life, fly backward 

far and fast 
The milestones of the fathers, the landmarks of the 

past. 



252 BALLADS. 

But human hearts remain unchanged : the sorrow 

and the sin, 
The loves and hopes and fears of old, are to our 

own akin ; 
And, in the tales our fathers told, the songs our 

mothers sung, 
Tradition, snowy-bearded, leans on Romance, ever 

young. 

O, sharp-lined man of traffic, on Saco's banks to- 
day ! 

O, mill-girl watching late and long the shuttle's 
restless play ! 

Let, for the once, a listening ear the working hand 
beguile, 

And lend my old Provincial tale, as suits, a tear or 
smile ! 



The evening gun had sounded from gray Fort 

Mary's walls; 
Through the forest, like a wild beast, roared and 

plunged the Saco's falls. 

And westward on the sea-wind, that damp and 
^ustygrew, 

Over cedars darkening inland the smokes of Spur- 
wink blew. 

On the hearth of Farmer Garvin blazed the crack- 
ling walnut log ; 

Bight and left sat dame and goodman, and between 
them lay the dog, 

Head on paws, and tail slow wagging, and beside 

him on her mat, 
Sitting drowsy in the fire-light, winked and purred 

the mottled cat. 



MARY GARVIN. 253 

" Twenty years ! " said Goodman Garvin, speaking 

sadly, under breath, 
And his gray head slowly shaking, as one who 

speaks of death. 

The Goodwife dropped her needles : " It is twenty 

years, to-day, 
Since the Indians fell on Saco, and stole our child 

away." 

Then they sank into the silence, for each knew the 

other's thought, 
Of a great and common sorrow, and words were 

needed not. 

" Who knocks ? " cried Goodman Garvin. The 

door was open thrown ; 
On two strangers, man and maiden, cloaked and 

furred, the fire-light shone. 

One with courteous gesture lifted the bear-skin 

from his head : 
" Lives here Elkanah Garvin ? " "I am he," the 

Goodman said. 

" Sit ye down, and dry and warm ye, for the night 

is chill with rain." 
And the Goodwife drew the settle, and stirred the 

fire amain. 

The maid unclasped her cloak-hood, the fire-light 

glistened fair 
In her large, moist eyes, and over soft folds of dark 

brown hair. 

Dame Garvin looked upon her : " It is Mary's self 

I see ! 
Dear heart ! " she cried, " now tell me, has my 

child come back to me *? " 



254 BALLADS. 

" My name indeed is Mary," said the stranger, sob> 
bing wild ; 

K Will you be to me a mother ? I am Mary Gar- 
vin's child ! 

K She sleeps by wooded Simcoe, but on her dying 

day 
She bade my father take me to her kinsfolk far 

away. 

" And when the priest besought her to do me no 

such wrong, 
She said, ' May God forgive me ! I have closed my 

heart too long. 

" * When I hid me from my father, and shut out 

my mother's call, 
I sinned against those dear ones, and the Father 

of us all. 

" ' Christ's love rebukes no home-love, breaks no 

tie of kin apart ; 
Better heresy in doctrine, than heresy of heart. 

" ' Tell me not the Church must censure : she who 

wept the Cross beside 
Never made her own flesh strangers, nor the claims 

of blood denied ; 

" * And if she who wronged her parents, with her 

child atones to them, 
Earthly daughter, Heavenly mother ! thou at least 

wilt not condemn ! ' 



" So, upon her death-bed lying, my blessed mother 

spake ; 
As we come to do her bidding, so receive us for her 



MARY GARVIN. 255 

" God be praised ! " said Goodwife Garvin, " He 

taketh, and lie gives ; 
He woundeth, but he healeth ; in her child our 

daughter lives." 

M Amen ! " the old man answered, as he brushed a 
tear away, 

And, kneeling by his hearth-stone, said, with rever- 
ence, " Let us pray." 

All its Oriental symbols, and its Hebrew para- 
phrase, 

Warm with earnest life and feeling, rose his prayer 
of love and praise. 

But he started at beholding, as he rose from off his 

knee, 
The stranger cross his forehead with the sign of 

Papistrie. 

" What is this ? " cried Farmer Garvin. " Is an 

English Christian's home 
A chapel or a mass-house, that you make the sign 

of Rome ? " 

Then the young girl knelt beside him, kissed his 

trembling hand, and cried : 
" 0, forbear to chide my father ; in that faith my 

mother died ! 

" On her wooden cross at Simcoe the dews and 

sunshine fall, 
As they fall on Spurwink's graveyard ; and the 

dear God watches all ! " 

The old man stroked the fair head that rested on 

his knee ; 
u Your words, dear child," he answered, " are God's 

rebuke to me. 



256 BALLADS. 

"Creed and rite perchance may differ, yet our 

faith and hope be one : 
Let me be your father's father, let him be to me a 

son." 

When the horn, on Sabbath morning, through the 

still and frosty air, 
From Spurwink, Pool, and Black Point, called to 

sermon and to prayer, 

To the goodly house of worship, where, in order 

due and fit, 
As by public vote directed, classed and ranked the 

people sit; 

Mistress first and goodwife after, clerkly squire 

before the clown, 
From the brave coat, lace-embroidered, to the gray 

frock, shading down ; 

From the pulpit read the preacher : " Goodman 

Garvin and his wife 
Fain would thank the Lord, whose kindness has 

followed them through life, 

" For the great and crowning mercy, that their 

daughter, from the wild, 
Where she rests (they hope in God's peace), has 

sent to them her child ; 

" And the prayers of all God's people they ask that 

they may prove 
Not unworthy, through their weakness, of such 

special proof of love." 

As the preacher prayed, uprising, the aged couple 

stood, 
And the fair Canadian also, in her modest maiden 

hood. 



MAUD MULLER. 257 

Thought the elders, grave and doubting, " She is 

Papist born and bred ; " 
Thought the young men, " ' lis an angel in Mary 

Garvin's stead ! " 



MAUD MULLEK. 

Maud Muller, on a summer's day, 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But, when she glanced to the far-off town, 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast — 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid. 

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow across the road. 
vol. n. 17 



258 BALLADS. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
And tilled for him her small tin cup, 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

" Thanks ! " said the Judge, " a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, 
And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed : "Ah, me ! 
That I the Judge's bride might be ! 

" He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat ; 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

" I'd dress my mother so grand and gay? 
And the baby should have a new toy each day 

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
And all should bless me who left our door." 



MAUD MULLER. 259 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
And saw Maud Muller standing still. 

"A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

"And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay : 

" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

" But low of cattle and song of birds, 
And health and quiet and loving words." 

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold, 
And his mother vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; 

And the young girl mused beside the well, 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture come and go : 

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 



260 BALLADS. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
He longed for the wayside well instead ; 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain' 
"Ah, that I were free again ! 

" Free as when I rode that day, 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 

And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein. 

And, gazing down with timid grace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
The tallow candle an astral burned, 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 



THE RANGER. *261 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, " It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these : " It might have been ! w 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Eoll the stone from its grave away ! 



THE RANGER. 

Robert Rawlin ! — Frosts were falling 
When the ranger's horn was calling 

Through the woods to Canada. 
Gone the winter's sleet and snowing, 
Gone the springtime's bud and blowing, 
Gone the summer's harvest mowing, 

And again the fields are gray. 

Yet away, he's away ! 
Faint and fainter hope is growing 

In the hearts that mourn his stay. 

Where the lion, crouching high on 
Abraham's rock with teeth of iron, 



2G2 BALLADS. 

Glares o'er wood and wave away, 
Faintly thence, as pines far sighing, 
Or as thunder spent and dying, 
Come the challenge and replying, 

Come the sounds of flight and fray. 

Well-a-day ! Hope and pray ! 
Some are living, some are lying 

In their red graves far away. 

Straggling rangers, worn with dangers, 
Homeward faring, weary strangers 

Pass the farm-gate on their way ; 
Tidings of the dead and living, 
Forest march and ambush, giving, 
Till the maidens leave their weaving, 

And the lads forget their play. 

" Still away, still away ! " 
Sighs a sad one, sick with grieving, 

" Why does Robert still delay ! " 

Nowhere fairer, sweeter, rarer, 
Does the golden-locked fruit-bearer 

Through his painted woodlands stray, 
Than where hill-side oaks and beeches 
Overlook the long, blue reaches, 
Silver coves and pebbled beaches, 

And green isles of Casco Bay ; 

Nowhere day, for delay, 
With a tenderer look beseeches, 

" Let me with my charmed earth stay ! 

On the grain-lands of the mainlands 
Stands the serried corn like train-bands, 

Plume and pennon rustling gay ; 
Out at sea, the islands wooded, 
Silver birches, golden-hooded, 
Set with maples, crimson-blooded, 

White sea-foam and sand-hills gray, 

Stretch away, far away. 



THE RANGER. 263 

Dim and dreamy, over-brooded 
By the hazy autumn day. 

Gayly chattering to the clattering 

Of the brown nuts downward pattering, 

Leap the squirrels, red and gray. 
On the grass-land, on the fallow, 
Drop the apples, red and yellow ; 
Drop the russet pears and mellow, 

Drop the red leaves all the day. 

And away, swift away 
Sun and cloud, o'er hill and hollow 

Chasing, weave their web of play. 

" Martha Mason, Martha Mason, 
Prithee tell us of the reason 

Why you mope at home to-day : 
Surely smiling is not sinning ; 
Leave your quilling, leave your spinning ; 
What is all your store of linen, 

If your heart is never gay ? 

Come away, come away ! 
Never yet did sad beginning 

Make the task of life a play." 

Overbending, till she's blending 
With the flaxen skein she's tending, 

Pale brown tresses smoothed away 
From her face of patient sorrow, 
Sits she, seeking but to borrow, 
From the trembling hope of morrow, 

Solace for the weary day. 

" Go your way, laugh and play ; 
Unto Him who heeds the sparrow 

And the lily, let me pray." 

" With our rally, rings the valley — 
Join us ! " cried the blue-eyed Nelly ; 
" Join us ! " cried the laughing May : 



264 BALLADS. 

" To the beach we all are going, 
And, to save the task of rowing, 
West by north the wind is blowing, 

Blowing briskly down the bay 1 

Come away, come away ! 
Time and tide are swiftly flowing, 

Let us take them while we may ! 

" Never tell us that you'll fail us, 
Where the purple beach-plum mellows 

On the bluffs so wild and gray. 
Hasten, for the oars are falling; 
Hark, our merry mates are calling : 
Time it is that we were all in, 

Singing tide ward down the bay ! " 

" Nay, nay, let me stay ; 
Sore and sad for Robert Rawlin 

Is my heart," she said, " to-day.** 

" Yain your calling for Rob Rawlin ! 
Some red squaw his moose-meat's broiling, 

Or some French lass, singing gay ; 
Just forget as he's forgetting ; 
What avails a life of fretting ? 
If some stars must needs be setting, 

Others rise as good as they." 

" Cease, I pray ; go your way ! " 
Martha cries, her eyelids wetting ; 

" Foul and false the words you say ! *' 

" Martha Mason, hear to reason ! 
Prithee, put a kinder face on ! " 

" Cease to vex me," did she say ; 
" Better at his side be lying, 
With the mournful pine-trees sighing, 
And the wild birds o'er us crying, 

Than to doubt like mine a prey ; 

While away, far away, 



THE RANGER. 265 

Turns my heart, forever trying 
Some new hope for each new day. 

" When the shadows veil the meadows, 
And the sunset's golden ladders 

Sink from twilight's walls of gray — 
From the window of my dreaming, 
I can see his sickle gleaming, 
Cheery-voiced, can hear him teaming 

Down the locust-shaded way ; 

But away, swift away 
Fades the fond, delusive seeming, 

And I kneel, again to pray. 

" When the growing dawn is showing, 
And the barn-yard cock is crowing, 

And the horned moon pales away : 
From a dream of him awaking, 
Every sound my heart is making 
Seems a footstep of his taking ; 

Then I hush the thought, and say, 

1 Nay, nay, he's away ! ' 
Ah ! my heart, my heart is breaking 

For the dear one far away." 

Look up, Martha ! worn and swarthy, 
Glows a face of manhood worthy : 

" Robert ! " " Martha ! " all they say. 
O'er went wheel and reel together, 
Little cared the owner whither ; 
Heart of lead is heart of feather, 

Noon of night is noon of day ! 

Come away, come away ! 
When such lovers meet each other, 

Why should prying idlers stay ? 

Quench the timber's fallen embers, 
Quench the red leaves in December's 
Hoary rime and chilly spray. 



266 BALLADS. 

But the hearth shall kindle clearer. 
Household welcomes sound sincerer, 
Heart to loving heart draw nearer, 
When the bridal bells shall say : 
" Hope and pray, trust alway ; 
Life is sweeter, love is dearer, 
For the trial and delay ! * 



LATER POEMS. 
1856-7. 



LATER POEMS. 



THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN. 

i. 

O'er the bare woods, whose outstretched hands 

Plead with the leaden heavens in vain, 
I see, beyond the valley lands, 

The sea's long level dim with rain. 
Around me all things, stark and dumb, 
Seem praying for the snows to come, 
And, for the summer bloom and greenness gone, 
With winter's sunset lights and dazzling morns 
atone. 

II. 

Along the river's summer walk, 

The withered tufts of asters nod ; 
And trembles on its arid stalk, 

The hoar plume of the golden-rod. 
And on a ground of sombre fir, 
And azure-studded juniper, 
The silver birch its buds of purple shows, 
And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet 
wild rose ! 

in. 

With mingled sound of horns and bells, 
A far-heard clang, the wild geese fly, 

Storm-sent, from Arctic moors and fells, 
Like a great arrow through the sky, 



270 LATER POEMS. 

Two dusky lines converged in one, 

Chasing the southward-flying sun ; 
While the brave snow-bird and the hardy jay 
Call to them from the pines, as if to bid them stay 



IV. 

I passed this way a year ago : 

The wind blew south ; the noon of day 
Was warm as June's ; and save that snow 

Flecked the low mountains far away, 
And that the vernal-seeming breeze 
Mocked faded grass and leafless trees, 
I might have dreamed of summer as I lay, 
Watching the fallen leaves with the soft wind at 
play. 



Since then, the winter blasts have piled 

The white pagodas of the snow 
On these rough slopes, and, strong and wild, 

Yon river, in its overflow 
Of spring-time rain and sun, set free, 
Crashed with its ices to the sea ; 
And over these gray fields, then green and gold, 
The summer corn has waved, the thunder's organ 
rolled. 

VI. 

Rich gift of God ! A year of time ! 

What pomp of rise and shut of day, 
What hues wherewith oar Northern clime 

Makes autumn's dropping woodlands gay, 
What airs outblown from ferny dells, 
And clover-bloom and sweet-brier smells, 
What songs of brooks and birds, what fruits and 

flowers, 
Green woods and moonlit snows, have in its round 
been ours ! 



THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN. 271 

VII. 

I know not how, in other lands, 

The changing seasons come and go ; 
What splendors fall on Syrian sands, 

What purple lights on Alpine snow ! 
Nor how the pomp of sunrise waits 
On Yenice at her watery gates ; 
A dream alone to me is Arno's vale, 
And the Alhambra's halls are but a traveller's tale. 

VIII. 

Yet, on life's current, he who drifts 

Is one with him who rows or sails ; 
And he who wanders widest, lifts 

No more of beauty's jealous veils 
t Than he who from his doorway sees 
The miracle of flowers and trees, 
Feels the warm Orient in the noonday air, . 
And from cloud minarets hears the sunset call to 
prayer ! 

IX. 

The eye may well be glad, that looks 

Where Pharpar's fountains rise and fall ; 
But he who sees his native brooks 

Laugh in the sun, has seen them all. 
The marble palaces of Ind 
Rise round him in the snow and wind ; 
From his lone sweet-brier Persian Hafiz smiles, 
And Rome's cathedral awe is in his woodland 
aisles. 

x. 

And thus it is my fancy blends 

The near at hand and far and rare ; 

And while the same horizon bends 
Above the silver-sprinkled hair, 

Which flashed the light of morning skies 

On childhood's wonder-lifted eyes, 



272 LATER POEMS. 

Within its round of sea and sky and field, 
Earth wheels with all her zones, the Kosmos standa 
revealed. 

XI. 

And thus the sick man on his bed, 

The toiler to his task-work bound, 
Behold their prison-walls outspread, 

Their clipped horizon widen round ! 
While freedom-giving fancy waits, 
Like Peter's angel at the gates, 
The power is theirs to baffle care and pain, 
To bring the lost world back, and make it theirs 
again! 

XII. 

What lack of goodly company, 

When masters of the ancient lyre 
Obey my call, and trace for me 

Their words of mingled tears and fire ! 
I talk with Bacon, grave and wise, 
I read the world with Pascal's eyes ; 
And priest and sage, with solemn brows austere, 
And poets, garland-bound, the Lords of Thought, 
draw near. 

XIII. 

Methinks, O friend, I hear thee say, 

" In vain the human heart we mock ; 
Bring living guests who love the day, 
Not ghosts who fly at crow of cock ! 
The herbs we share with flesh and blood, 
Are better than ambrosial food, 
With laurelled shades." I grant it, nothing loth, 
But doubly blest is he who can partake of both. 

XIV. 

He who might Plato's banquet grace, 
Have I not seen before me sit, 



THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN. 273 

And watched his puritanic face, 

With more than Eastern wisdom lit ? 
Shrewd mystic ! who, upon the back 
Of his Poor Richard's Almanack, 
Writing the Sufi's song, the Gentoo's dream, 
Links Menu's age of thought to Fulton's age of 
steam ! 

XV. 

Here too, of answering love secure, 

Have I not welcomed to my hearth 
The gentle pilgrim troubadour, 

Whose songs have girdled half the earth ; 
Whose pages, like the magic mat 
Whereon the Eastern lover sat, 
Have borne me over Rhine-land's purple vines, 
And Nubia's tawny sands, and Phrygia's mountain 
pines ! 

XVI. 

And he, who to the lettered wealth 
Of ages, adds the lore unpriced, 
The wisdom and the moral health, 

The ethics of the school of Christ ; 
The statesman to his holy trust 
As the Athenian archon just, 
Struck down, exiled like him for truth alone, 
Has he not graced my home with beauty all his own ? 

XVII. 

What greetings smile, what farewells wave, 

What loved ones enter and depart ! 
The good, the beautiful, the brave, 

The Heaven-lent treasures of the heart ! 
How conscious seems the frozen sod 
And beechen slope whereon they trod ! 
The oak-leaves rustle, and the dry grass bends 
Beneath the shadowy feet of lost or absent 
friends. 
vol. n. 18 



274 LATER POEMS. 

XVHI. 

Then ask not why to these bleak hills 

I cling, as clings the tufted moss, 
To bear the winter's lingering chills, 

The mocking spring's perpetual loss. 
I dream of lands where summer smiles, 
And soft winds blow from spicy isles, 
But scarce would Ceylon's breath of flowers be 

sweet, 
Could I not feel thy soil, New England, at my 
feet! 

XIX. 

At times I long for gentler skies, 

And bathe in dreams of softer air, 
But homesick tears would fill the eyes 

That saw the Cross without the Bear. 
The pine must whisper to the palm, 
The north wind break the tropic calm ; 
And with the dreamy languor of the Line, 
The North's keen virtue blen^, and strength to 
beauty join. 

xx. 

Better to stem with heart and hand 
The roaring tide of life, than lie, 
Unmindful, on its flowery strand, 
Of God's occasions drifting by ! 
Better with naked nerve to bear 
The needles of this goading air, 
Than, in the lap of sensual ease, forego 
The Godlike power to do, the Godlike aim to 
know. 

XXI. 

Home of my heart ! to me more fair 
Than gay Versailles or Windsor's halls, 

The painted, shingly town-house where 
The freeman's vote for Freedom falls I 



THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN. 275 

The simple roof where prayer is made, 

Than Gothic groin and colonade ; 
The living temple of the heart of man, 
Than Rome's sky-mocking vault, or many-spired 
Milan 1 

XXII. 

More dear thy equal village schools, 

Where rich and poor the Bible read, 
Than classic halls where Priestcraft rules, 

And Learning wears the chains of Creed ; 
Thy glad Thanksgiving, gathering in 
The scattered sheaves of home and kin, 
Than the mad license following Lenten pains, 
Or holydays of slaves who laugh and dance in 
chains. 



And sweet homes nestle in these dales, 

And perch along these wooded swells ; 
And, blest beyond Arcadian vales, 

They hear the sound of Sabbath bells ! 
Here dwells no perfect man sublime, 
Nor woman winged before her time, 
But with the faults and follies of the race, 
Old home-bred virtues held their not unhonored 
place. 

XXIV. 

Here manhood struggles for the sake 

Of mother, sister, daughter, wife, 
The graces and the loves which make 

The music of the march of life ; 
And woman, in her daily round 
Of duty, walks on holy ground. 
No unpaid menial tills the soil, nor here 
Is the bad lesson learned at human rights to 
sneer. 



276 LATER POEMS. 



Then let the icy North wind blow 

The trumpets of the coming storm, 
To arrowy sleet and blinding snow 

Yon slanting lines of rain transform. 
Young hearts shall hail the drifted cold, 
As gayly as I did of old ; 
And I, who watch them through the frosty pane, 
Unenvious, live in them my boyhood o'er again. 



And I will trust that He who heeds 

The life that hides in mead and wold, 
Who hangs yon alder's crimson beads, 

And stains these mosses green and gold, 
Will still, as He hath done, incline 
His gracious care to me and mine ; 
Grant what we ask aright, from wrong debar, 
And, as the earth grows dark, make brighter every 
star! 



I have not seen, I may not see, 

My hopes for man take form in fact, 
But God will give the victory 

In due time ; in that faith I act. 
And he who sees the future sure, 
The baffling present may endure, 
And bless, meanwhile, the unseen Hand that leads 
The heart's desires beyond the halting step of 
deeds. 

XXVIII. 

And thou, my song, I send thee forth, 
Where harsher songs of mine have flown 

Go, find a place at home and hearth 
Where'er thy singer's name is known ; 

Revive for him the kindly thought 

Of friends ; and they who love him not, 



THE MAYFLOWEKS. 277 

Touched by some strain of thine, perchance may 

take 
The hand he proffers all, and thank him for thy 

sake. 



THE MAYFLOWERS. 

The trailing arbutus, or mayflower, grows abundantly in the 
Vicinity of Plymouth, and was the first flower that greeted the 
Pilgrims after their fearful winter. 

Sad Mayflower ! watched by winter stars, 

And nursed by winter gales, 
With petals of the sleeted spars, 

And leaves of frozen sails ! 

What had she in those dreary hours, 

Within her ice-rimmed bay, 
In common with the wild-wood flowers, 

The first sweet smiles of May ? 

Yet, " God be praised ! " the Pilgrim said, 

Who saw the blossoms peer 
Above the brown leaves, dry and dead, 

" Behold our Mayflower here ! " 

" God wills it : here our rest shall be, 

Our years of wandering o'er, 
For us the Mayflower of the Sea, 

Shall spread her sails no more." 

Oh ! sacred flowers of faith and hope 

As sweetly now as then 
Ye bloom on many a birchen slope, 

In many a pine-dark glen. 

Behind the sea-wall's rugged length, 
Unchanged, your leaves unfold, 



278 LATEB POEMS. 

Like love behind the manly strength 
Of the brave hearts of old. 

So live the fathers in their sons, 

Their sturdy faith be ours, 
And ours the love that overruns 

Its rocky strength with flowers. 

The Pilgrim's wild and wintry day 

Its shadow round us draws ; 
The Mayflower of his stormy bay, 

Our Freedom's struggling cause. 

But warmer suns ere long shall bring 

To life the frozen sod ; 
And, through dead leaves of hope, shall spring 

Afresh the flowers of God ! 



BURIAL OF BARBOUR. 

Bear him, comrades, to his grave ; 
Never over one more brave 

Shall the prairie grasses weep, 
In the ages yet to come, 
When the millions in our room, 

What we sow in tears, shall reap. 

Bear him up the icy hill, 
With the Kansas, frozen still 

As his noble heart, below, 
And the land he came to till 
With a freeman's thews and will, 

And his poor hut roofed with snow 1 

One more look of that dead face, 
Of his murder's ghastly trace ! 



BURIAL OF BARBOUR. 279 

One more kiss, oh, widowed one ! 
Lay your left hands on his brow, 
Lift your right hands up, and vow 

That his work shall yet be done. 

Patience, friends ! The eye of God 
Every path by Murder trod 

Watches, lidless, day and night ; 
And the dead man in his shroud, 
And his widow weeping loud, 

And our hearts, are in his sight. 

Every deadly threat that swells 
With the roar of gambling hells, 

Every brutal jest and jeer, 
Every wicked thought and plan 
Of the cruel heart of man, 

Though but whispered, He can hear ! 

We in suffering, they in crime, 
Wait the just award of time, 

Wait the vengeance that is due ; 
Not in vain a heart shall break, 
Not a tear for Freedom's sake 

Fall unheeded: God is true. 

While the flag with stars bedecked 
Threatens where it should protect, 

And the Law shakes hands with Crime, 
What is left us but to wait, 
Match our patience to our fate, 

And abide the better time ? 

Patience, friends ! The human heart 
Everywhere shall take our part, 

Everywhere for us shall pray ; 
On our side are nature's laws, 
And God's life is in the cause 

That we suffer for to-day. 



280 LATER POEMS. 

Well to suffer is divine ; 

Pass the watchword down the line, 

Pass the countersign : " Endure." 
Not to him who rashly dares, 
But to him who nobly bears, 

Is the victor's garland sure. 

Frozen earth to frozen breast, 
Lay our slain one down to rest ; 

Lay him down in hope and faith, 
And above the broken sod, 
Once again, to Freedom's God, 

Pledge ourselves for life or death — 

That the State whose walls we lay, 
In our blood and tears, to-day, 

Shall be free from bonds of shame, 
And our goodly land untrod 
By the feet of Slavery, shod 

With cursing as with flame ! 

Plant the Buckeye on his grave, 
For the hunter of the slave 

In its shadow cannot rest ; 
And let martyr mound and tree 
Be our pledge and guarantee 

Of the freedom of the West ! 



TO PENNSYLVANIA 

Oh State prayer-founded ! never hung 
Such choice upon a people's tongue, 

Such power to bless or ban, 
As that which makes thy whisper Fate, 
For which on thee the centuries wait, 

And destinies of man ! 



THE PASS OF THE SIERRA. 281 

Across thy Alleghanian chain, 
With groanings from a land in pain, 

The west wind finds its way : 
Wild- wailing from Missouri's flood 
The crying of thy children's blood 

Is in thy ears to-day ! 

And unto thee in Freedom's hour 
Of sorest need God gives the power 

To ruin or to save ; 
To wound or heal, to blight or bless 
With fertile field or wilderness, 

A free home or a grave ! 

Then let thy virtue match the crime, 
Rise to a level with the time ; 

And, if a son of thine 
Betray or tempt thee, Brutus-like 
For Fatherland and Freedom strike 

As Justice gives the sign. 

Wake sleeper, from thy dream of ease, 
The great occasion's forelock seize ; 

And, let the North wind strong, 
And golden leaves of Autumn, be 
Thy coronal of victory 

And thy triumphal song. 
10$ mo. 1856. 



THE PASS OF THE SIERRA. 

All night above their rocky bed 
They saw the stars march slow ; 

The wild Sierra overhead, 
The desert's death below. 



282 LATER POEMS. 

The Indian from his lodge of bark, 
The gray bear from his den, 

Beyond their camp-fire's wall of dark, 
Glared on the mountain men. 

Still upward turned, with anxious strain, 
Their leader's sleepless eye, 

Where splinters of the mountain chain 
Stood black against the sky. 

The night waned slow : at last, a glow, 

A gleam of sudden fire, 
Shot up behind the walls of snow, 

And tipped each icy spire. 

" Up men ! " he cried, " yon rocky cone, 
To-day, please God, we'll pass, 

And look from Winter's frozen throne 
On Summer's flowers and grass ! " 

They set their faces to the blast, 

They trod th' eternal snow, 
And faint, worn, bleeding, hailed at last 

The promised land below. 

Behind, they saw the snow-cloud tossed 

By many an icy horn ; 
Before, warm valleys, wood-embossed, 

And green with vines and corn. 

They left the Winter at their backs 

To flap his baffled wing, 
And downward, with the cataracts, 

Leaped to the lap of Spring. 

Strong leader of that mountain band 

Another task remains, 
To break from Slavery's desert land 

A path to Freedom's plains. 



THE CONQUEST OF FINLAND. 

The winds are wild, the way is drear, 
Yet, flashing through the night, 

Lo ! icy ridge and rocky spear 
Blaze out in morning light ! 

Rise up, Fremont ! and go before ; 

The Hour must have its Man ; 
Put on the hunting-shirt once more, 

And lead in Freedom's van ! 
%th mo. 1856. 



THE CONQUEST OF FINLAND.** 

Across the frozen marshes 
The winds of Autumn blow, 

And the fen-lands of the Wetter 
Are white with early snow. * 

But where the low, gray headlands, 
Look o'er the Baltic brine, 

A bark is sailing in the track 
Of England's battle-line. 

No wares hath she to barter 
For Bothnia's fish and grain ; 

She saileth not for pleasure, 
She saileth not for gain. 

But, still by isle or mainland, 
She drops her anchor down, 

Where'er the British cannon 
Rained fire on tower and town. 

Outspake the ancient Amtman, 
At the gate of Helsingfors : 

" Why comes this ship a-spying 
In the track of England's wars ? " 



284 LATER POEMS. 

" God bless her," said the coast-guard, 
" God bless the ship, I say. 

The holy angels trim the sails 
That speed her on her way ! 

" Where'er she drops her anchor, 
The peasant's heart is glad ; 

Where'er she spreads her parting sail, 
The peasant's heart is sad. 

" Each wasted town and hamlet 

She visits to restore ; 
To roof the shattered cabin, 

And feed the starving poor. 



The foraged beeves and grain, 
The spoil of flake and storehouse, 
The good ship brings again. 

"And so to Finland's sorrow 
The sweet amend is made, 

As if the healing hand of Christ 
Upon her wounds were laid ! " 

Then said the gray old Amtman, 
" The will of God be done ! 

The battle lost by England's hate, 
By England's love is won ! 

" We braved the iron tempest 
That thundered on our shore ; 

But when did kindness fail to find 
The key to Finland's door ? 

" No more from Aland's ramparts 
Shall warning signal come, 

Nor startled Sweaborg hear again 
The roll of midnight, drum. 



A LAY OF OLD TIME 285 

" Beside our fierce Black Eagle 

The Dove of Peace shall rest ; 
And in the mouths of cannon 

The sea-bird make her nest. 

" For Finland, looking seaward, 

No coming foe shall scan ; 
And the holy bells of Abo 

Shall ring, ' Good-will to man ! ' 

" Then row thy boat, oh, fisher ! 

In peace on lake and bay ; 
And thou, young maiden, dance again 

Around the poles of May ! 

" Sit down, old men, together, 

Old wives, in quiet spin ; 
Henceforth the Anglo-Saxon 

Is the brother of the Finn ! " 



A LAY OF OLD TIME. 

WRITTEN FOR THE ESSEX CO. AGRICULTURAL FAIR. 

One morning of the first sad Fall, 

Poor Adam and his bride 
Sat in the shade of Eden's wall — 

But on the outer side. 

She, blushing in her fig-leaf suit 

For the chaste garb of old ; 
He, sighing o'er his bitter fruit 

For Eden's drupes of gold. 

Behind them, smiling in the morn, 

Their forfeit garden lay, 
Before them, wild with rock and thorn, 

The desert stretched away. 



286 LATER POEMS. 

They heard the air above them fanned, 

A light step on the sward, 
And lo ! they saw before them stand 

The angel of the Lord ! 

"Arise," he said, " why look behind, 

When hope is all before, 
And patient hand and willing mind, 

Your loss may yet restore ? 

" I leave with you a spell whose power 

Can make the desert glad, 
And call around you fruit and flower 

As fair as Eden had. 

" I clothe your hands with power to lift 
The curse from off your soil ; 

Your very doom shall seem a gift, 
Your loss a gain through Toil. 

" Go, cheerful as yon humming-bees, 

To labor as to play." 
White glimmering over Eden's trees 

The angel passed away. 

The pilgrims of the world went forth 

Obedient to the word, 
And found where'er they tilled the earth 

A garden of the Lord ! 

The thorn-tree cast its evil fruit 
And blushed with plum and pear ; 

And seeded grass and trodden root 
Grew sweet beneath their care. 

We share our primal parents' fate, 

And in our turn and day, 
Look back on Eden's sworded gate 

As sad and lost as they. 



WHAT OF THE DAY? 287 

But still for us his native skies 

The pitying Angel leaves, 
And leads through Toil to Paradise 

New Adams and new Eves ! 



WHAT OF THE DAY? 

A sound of tumult troubles all the air, 

Like the low thunders of a sultry sky 
Far-rolling ere the downright lightnings glare : 

The hills blaze red with warnings : foes draw 
nigh 

Treading the dark with challenge and reply. 
Behold the burden of the prophet's vision — 
The gathering hosts — the Valley of Decision, 

Dusk with the wings of eagles wheeling o'er. 
Day of the Lord, of darkness and not light ! 

It breaks in thunder and the whirlwind's roar ! 
Even so, Father ! Let thy will be done — 
Turn and o'erturn, end what thou hast begun 
In judgment or in mercy : as for me, 
If but the least and frailest, let me be 
Evermore numbered with the truly free 
Who find thy service perfect liberty ! 
I fain would thank Thee that my mortal life 

Has reached the hour, (albeit through care and 
pain) 
When Good and Evil, as for final strife, 

Close dim and vast on Armageddon's plain ; 
And Michael and his angels once again 

Drive howling back the Spirits of the Night. 
Oh ! for the faith to read the signs aright, 
And, from the angle of thy perfect sight 

See Truth's white banner floating on before ; 

And, the Good Cause, despite of venal friends, 

And base expedients, move to noble ends : 



288 LATER POEMS. 

See Peace with Freedom make to Time amends, 
And, through its cloud of dust, the threshing-floor, 
Flailed by thy thunder, heaped with chaffless 
grain ! 

1857. 



THE FIRST FLOWERS. 

For ages on our river borders, 
These tassels in their tawny bloom, 

And willowy studs of downy silver, 
Have prophesied of Spring to come. 

For ages have the unbound waters 

Smiled on them from their pebbly hem, 

And the clear carol of the robin 

And song of blue-bird welcomed them. 

But never yet from smiling river, 
Or song of early bird, have they 

Been greeted with a gladder welcome 
Than whispers from my heart to-day. 

They break the spell of cold and darkness, 
The weary watch of sleepless pain ; 

And from my heart, as from the river, 
The ice of winter melts again. 

Thanks, Mary ! for this wild-wood token 
Of Freya's footsteps drawing near ; 

Almost, as in the rune of Asgard, 
The growing of the grass I hear. 

It is as if the pine-trees called me 
From ceiled room and silent books, 

To see the dance of woodland shadows, 
And hear the song of April brooks ! 



MY NAMESAKE. 289 

As in the old Teutonic ballad 

Live singing bird and flowering tree, 

Together live in bloom and music, 
I blend in song thy flowers and thee. 

Earth's rocky tablets bear forever 

The dint of rain and small bird's track : 

Who knows but that my idle verses 
May leave some trace by Merrimack ! 

The bird that trod the mellow layers 
Of the young earth is sought in vain ; 

The cloud is gone that wove the sandstone, 
From God's design, with threads of rain ! 

So, when this fluid age we live in 

Shall stiffen round my careless rhyme, 

Who made the vagrant tracks may puzzle 
The savans of the coming time : 

And, following out their dim suggestions, 
Some idly-curious hand may draw 

My doubtful portraiture, as Cuvier 
Drew fish and bird from fin and claw. 

And maidens in the far-off twilights, 

Singing my words to breeze and stream, 
Shall wonder if the old time Mary 
Were real, or the rhymer's dream ! 
1857, 3d mo. 1. 



MY NAMESAKE. 

Yotr scarcely need my tardy thanks, 
Who, self-rewarded, nurse and tend — 

A green leaf on your own Green Banks — 
The memory of your friend. 

vol. u. 19 



290 LATER POEMS. 

For me, no wreath, bloom- woven, hides 
The sobered brow and lessening hair : 

For aught I know the myrtled sides 
Of Helicon are bare. 

Their scallop-shells so many bring 
The fabled founts of song to try, 

They've drained, for aught I know, the spring 
Of Aganippe dry. 

Ah well ! — The wreath the Muses braid 
Proves often Folly's cap and bell; 

Methinks, my ample beaver's shade 
May serve my turn as well. 

Let Love's and Friendship's tender debt 

Be paid by those I love in life. 
Why should the unborn critic whet 

For me his scalping-knife ? 

Why should the stranger peer and pry 
One's vacant house of life about, 

And drag for curious ear and eye 
His faults and follies out ? — 

Why stuff, for fools to gaze upon, 
With chaff of words, the garb he wore, 

As corn-husks when the ear is gone 
Are rustled all the more ? 

Let kindly Silence close again, 
The picture vanish from the eye, 

And on the dim and misty main 
Let the small ripple die. 

Yet not the less I own your claim 

To grateful thanks, dear friends of mine : 

Hang, if it please you so, my name 
Upon your household line. 



MY NAMESAKE. 291 

Let Fame from brazen lips blow wide 

Her chosen names, I envy none : 
A mother's love, a father's pride, 

Shall keep alive my own ! 

Still shall that name as now recall 

The young leaf wet with morning dew, 

The glory where the sunbeams fall 
The breezy woodlands through. 

That name shall be a household word, 

A spell to waken smile or sigh ; 
In many an evening prayer be heard 

And cradle lullaby. 

And thou, dear child, in riper days 
When asked the reason of thy name, 

Shalt answer : " One 'twere vain to praise 
Or censure bore the same. 

" Some blamed him, some believed him good— 
The truth lay doubtless 'twixt the two — 

He reconciled as best he could 
Old faith and fancies new. 

" In him the grave and playful mixed, 
And wisdom held with folly truce, 

And Nature compromised betwixt, 
Good fellow and recluse. 

" He loved his friends, forgave his foes ; 

And, if his words were harsh at times, 
He spared his fellow-men — his blows 

Fell only on their crimes. 

u He loved the good and wise, but found 

His human heart to all akin 
Who met him on the common ground 

Of suffering and of sin. 



292 LATER POEMS 

" Whate'er his neighbors might endure 
Of pain or grief his own became ; 

For all the ills he could not cure 
He held himself to blame. 

" His good was mainly an intent, 
His evil not of forethought done ; 

The work he wrought was rarely meant 
Or finished as begun. 

" HI served his tides of feeling strong 
To turn the common mills of use ; 

And, over restless wings of song, 
His birthright garb hung loose ! 

" His eye was beauty's powerless slave, 
And his the ear which discord pains ; 

Few guessed beneath his aspect grave, 
What passions strove in chains. 

" He had his share of care and pain, 

No holiday was life to him ; 
Still in the heir-loom cup we drain 

The bitter drop will swim. 

" Yet Heaven was kind, and here a bird 
And there a flower beguiled his way ; 

And, cool, in summer noons, he heard 
The fountains plash and play. 

" On all his sad or restless moods 
The patient peace of Nature stole ; 

The quiet of the fields and woods 
Sank deep into his soul. 

" He worshipped as his fathers did, 
And kept the faith of childish days, 

And, howsoe'er he strayed or slid, 
He loved the good old ways. 



MY NAMESAKE. 293 

" The simple tastes, the kindly traits, 
The tranquil air, and gentle speech, 

The silence of the soul that waits 
For more than man to teach. 

" The cant of party, school, and sect, 
Provoked at times his honest scorn, 

And Folly, in its gray respect, 
He tossed on satire's horn. 

" But still his heart was full of awe 
And reverence for all sacred things ; 

And, brooding over form and law, 
He saw the Spirit's wings ! 

" Life's mystery wrapt him like a cloud ; 

He heard far voices mock his own, 
The sweep of wings unseen, the loud, 

Long roll of waves unknown. 

" The arrows of his straining sight 

Fell quenched in darkness ; priest and sage, 
Like lost guides calling left and right, 

Perplexed his doubtful age. 

" Like childhood, listening for the sound 
Of its dropped pebbles in the well, 

All vainly down the dark profound 
His brief-lined plummet fell. 

" So, scattering flowers with pious pains 

On old beliefs, of later creeds, 
Which claimed a place in Truth's domains, 

He asked the title-deeds. 

" He saw the old-time's groves and shrines 
In the long distance fair and dim ; 

And heard, like sound of far-off pines, 
The century-mellowed hymn ! 



294 LATER POEMS. 

" He dared not mock the .Dervish whirl, 
The Brahmin's rite, the Lama's spell ; 

God knew the heart: Devotion's pearl 
Might sanctify the shell. 

" While others trod the altar stairs 

He faltered like the publican ; 
And, while they praised as saints, his prayers 

Were those of sinful man. 

" For awed by Sinai's Mount of Law 
The trembling faith alone sufficed, 

That, through its cloud and flame, he saw 
The sweet, sad face of Christ ! — 

" And listening, with his forehead bowed, 
Heard the Divine compassion fill 

The pauses of the trump and cloud 
With whispers small and still. 

" The words he spake, the thoughts he penned 
Are mortal as his hand and brain, 

But, if they served the Master's end, 
He has not lived in vain ! " 

Heaven make thee better than thy name 
Child of my friends ! — For thee I crave 

What riches never bought, nor fame 
To mortal longing gave. 

I pray the prayer of Plato old : 
God make thee beautiful within, 

And let thine eyes the good behold 
In every thing save sin ! 

Imagination held in check 

To serve not rule thy poised mind ; 

Thy Reason, at the frown or beck 
Of Conscience, loose or bind. 



MY NAMESAKE. 295 

No dreamer thou, but real all — • 

Strong manhood crowning vigorous youth ; 
Life made by duty epical 

And rhythmic with the truth. 

So shall that life the fruitage yield 

Which trees of healing only give, 
And green-leafed in the Eternal field ' 

Of God, forever live ! — 



NOTES. 



Note 1, page 3c 
For the idea of this line, I am indebted to Emerson> in 
nis inimitable sonnet to the Ehodora : 

" If eyes were made for seeing, 

Then Beauty is its own excuse for being." 



Note 2, page 31. 
Among the earliest converts to the doctrines of Friends 
in Scotland, was Barcla} r of Ury, an old and distinguished 
soldier, who had fought under Gustavus Adolphus, in 
Germany. As a Quaker, he became the object of perse- 
cution and abuse at the hands of the magistrates and the 
populace. None bore the indignities of the mob with 
greater patience and nobleness of soul than this once 
proud gentleman and soldier. One of his friends, on an 
occasion of uncommon rudeness, lamented that he should 
be treated so harshly in his old age, who had been so 
honored before. " I find more satisfaction," said Barclay, 
" as well as honor, in being thus insulted for my religious 
principles, than when, a few years ago, it was usual for 
the magistrates, as I passed the city of Aberdeen, to meet 
me on the road and conduct me to public entertainment 
in their hall, and then escort me out again, to gain my 
favor." 

Note 3, page 58. 
Lucy Hooper died at Brooklyn, L. I., on the 1st of 8th 
mo., 1841, aged 24 years. 

Note 4, page 61. 
The last time T saw Dr. Channing was in the summer 
of 1841, when, in company with my English friend, Jo- 
seph Sturge, so well known for his philanthropic labors 



NOTES. 297 

and liberal political opinions, I visited him at his summer 
residence in Khode Island. In recalling the impressions 
of that visit, it can scarcely be necessary to say that I 
have no reference to the peculiar religious opinions of a 
man,whose life, beautifully and truly manifested above the 
atmosphere of sect, is now the world's common legacy. 



Note 5, page 68. 
v vine of Sibmah ! I will weep for thee with the 
weeping of Jazer ! " — Jeremiah xlviii. 32. 



Note 6, page 75. 
Sophia Sturge, sister of Joseph Sturge, of Birmingham, 
the President of the British Complete Suffrage Associa- 
tion, died in the 6th mo. 1845. She was the colleague, 
counsellor, and ever ready helpmate of her brother in all 
his vast designs of beneficence. The Birmingham Pilot 
says of her : " Never, perhaps, were the active and passive 
virtues of the human character more harmoniously and 
beautifully blended, than in this excellent woman." 

Note 7, page 80. 
Winnipiseogee : " Smile of the Great Spirit." 

Note 8, page 88. 
This legend is the subject of a celebrated picture by 
Tintoretto, of which Mr. Rogers possesses the original 
sketch. The slave lies on the ground, amid a crowd of 
spectators, who look on, animated by all the various emo- 
tions of sympathy, rage, terror ; a woman, in front, with 
a child in her arms, has always been admired for the life- 
like vivacity of her attitude and expression. The execu- 
tioner holds up the broken implements ; St. Mark, with a 
headlong movement, seems to rush down from heaven in 
haste to save his worshipper. The dramatic grouping in 
this picture is wonderful; the coloring, in its gorgeous 
depth and harmony, is, in Mr. Rogers's sketch, finer than 
in the picture. — Mrs. Jamiesori's Poetry of Sacred and Le~ 
gendary Art, vol. 1, page 121. 



Note 9, page 91. 
Pennant, in his " Voyage to the Hebrides," describes 



298 NOTES. 

the holy well of Loch Maree, the waters of which were 
supposed to effect a miraculous cure of melancholy, 
trouble, and insanity. 



Note 10, page 95. 
The writer of these lines is no enemy of Catholics. He 
has, on more than one occasion, exposed himself to the 
censures of his Protestant brethren, by his strenuous 
endeavors to procure indemnification for the owners of 
the convent destroyed near Boston. He defended the 
cause of the Irish patriots long before it had become pop- 
ular in this country; and he was one of the first to urge 
the most liberal aid to the suffering and starving popula- 
tion of the Catholic island. The severity of his language 
finds its ample apology in the reluctant confession of one 
of the most eminent Romish priests, the eloquent and de- 
voted Father Ventura. 



Note 11, page 98. 
Ebenezer Elliott, the intelligence of whose death has 
recently reached us, was, to the artisans of England, what 
Burns was to the peasantry of Scotland. His " Corn-law 
Rhymes " contributed not a little to that overwhelming 
tide of popular opinion and feeling which resulted in the 
repeal of the tax on bread. Well has the eloquent author 
of " The Reforms and Reformers of Great Britain" said of 
him — " Not corn-law repealers alone, but all Britons who 
moisten their scanty bread with the sweat of the brow, 
are largely indebted to his inspiring lays, for the mighty 
bound which the laboring mind of England has taken, in 
our day." 

Note 12, page 100. 
The reader of the Biography of the late William Allen, 
the philanthropic associate of Clarkson and Romilly, can- 
not fail to admire his simple and beautiful record of a 
tour through Europe, in the years 1818 and 1819, in the 
company of his American friend, Stephen Grellett. 



Note 13, page 119. 

" Thou 'mindst me of a story told 
In rare Bernardin's leaves of gold." 



NOTES. 299 

The incident here referred to is related in a note to 
Bernardin Henri Saint Pierre's Etudes de la Nature. 

" We arrived at the habitation of the Hermits a little 
before they sat down to their table, and while they were 
still at church. J. J . Rousseau proposed to me to offer 
up our devotions. The hermits were reciting the Lita- 
nies of Providence, which are remarkably beautiful. 
After we had addressed our prayers to God, and the her- 
mits were proceeding to the refectory, Rousseau said to 
me, with his heart overflowing, ' At this moment I ex- 
perience what is said in the gospel : Where two or three 
are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of 
them. There is here a feeling of peace and happiness 
which penetrates the soul.' I said, ' If Fenelon had lived, 
you would have been a Catholic' He exclaimed, with 
tears in his eyes, ' 0, if Fenelon were alive, I would 
struggle to get into his service, even as a lackey! ' " 

In my sketch of Saint Pierre, it will be seen that I have 
somewhat antedated the period of his old age. At that 
time he was not probably more than fifty. In describing 
him, I have by no means exaggerated his own history of 
his mental condition at the period of the story. In the 
fragmentary Sequel to his Studies of Nature, he thus 
speaks of himself: " The ingratitude of those of whom I 
had deserved kindness, unexpected family misfortunes, 
the total loss of my small patrimony through enterprises 
solely undertaken for the benefit of my country, the debts 
under which I lay oppressed, the blasting of all my hopes, 
— these combined calamities made dreadful inroads upon 
my health and reason." " I found it impossible to con- 
tinue in a room where there was company, especially if 
the doors were shut. I could not even cross an alley in a 
public garden, if several persons had got together in it. 
When alone, my malady subsided. I felt myself likewise 
at ease in places where I saw children only. At the sight 
of any one walking up to the place where I was, I felt my 
whole frame agitated, and retired. I often said to my- 
self, My sole study has been to merit well of mankind; 
why do I fear them? " 

He attributes his improved health of mind and body to 
the counsels of his friend, J.J. Rousseau. "I renounced," 
says he, " my books. I threw my eyes upon the works 
of Nature, which spake to all my senses a language which 
neither time nor nations have it in their power to alter. 
Thenceforth my histories and my journals were the herb- 
age of the fields and meadows. My thoughts did not go 
forth painfully after them, as in the case of human sys- 



300 NOTES. 

tems; but their thoughts, under a thousand engaging 
forms, quietly sought me. In these I studied, without 
effort, the laws of that Universal Wisdom which had sur- 
rounded me from the cradle, but on which heretofore I 
had bestowed little attention." 

Speaking of Rousseau, he says : " I derived inexpres- 
sible satisfaction from his society. What I prized still 
more than his genius, was his probity. He was one of 
the few literary characters tried in the furnace of afflic- 
tion, to whom you could, with perfect security, confide 
your most secret thoughts." "Even when he deviated, 
and became the victim of himself or of others, he could 
forget his own misery, in devotion to the welfare of man- 
kind. He was uniformly the advocate of the miserable. 
There might be inscribed on his tomb these affecting 
words from that Book, of which he carried always about 
him some select passages, during the last years of his life : 
1 Bis sins, which are many, are forgiven, for he loved 
much.'' " 

Note 14, page 122. 

" Like that the gray-haired sea-king passed." 

Dr. Hooker, who accompanied Sir James Ross in his 
expedition of 1841, thus describes the appearance of that 
unknown land of frost and fire, which was seen in latitude 
77° south, — a stupendous chain of mountains, the whole 
mass of which, from its highest point to the ocean, was 
covered with everlasting snow and ice : 

" The water and the sky were both as blue, or rather 
more intensely blue, than I have ever seen them in the 
tropics, and all the coast was one mass of dazzlingly 
beautiful peaks of snow, which, when the sun approached 
the horizon, reflected the most brilliant tints of golden 
yellow and scarlet ; and then, to see the dark cloud of 
smoke, tinged with flame, rising from the volcano in a 
perfect unbroken column, one side jet-black, the other 
giving back the colors of the sun, sometimes turning off 
at a right-angle by some current of wind, and stretching 
many miles to leeward ! This was a sight so surpassing 
everything that can be imagined, and so heightened by 
the consciousness that we had penetrated, under the 
guidance of our commander, into regions far beyond what 
was ever deemed practicable, that it caused a feeling of 
awe to steal over us at the consideration of our own com- 
parative insignificance and helplessness, and at the samo 
time an indescribable feeling of the greatness of the 
Creator in the works of his hand." 



NOTES. 301 

Note 15, page 140. 
The election of Charles Sumner to the U. S. Senate 
"followed hard upon " the rendition of the fugitive Sims 
by the U. S. officials and the armed police of Boston. 

Note 16, page 148. 
The storming of the city of Derne, in 1805, by General 
Eaton, at the head of nine Americans, forty Greeks, and 
a motley array of Turks and Arabs, was one of those feats 
of hardihood and daring which have in all ages attracted 
the admiration of the multitude. The higher and holier 
heroism of Christian self-denial and sacrifice, in the 
humble walks of private duty, is seldom so well appre- 
ciated. 

Note 17, page 156. 
It is proper to say that these lines are the joint im- 
promptu of my sister and myself. They are inserted here 
as an expression of our admiration of the gifted stranger 
whom we have since learned to love as a friend. 



Note 18, page 167. 
Kathleen. 

This ballad was originally published in a prose work of 
the author's, as the song of a wandering Milesian school- 
master. 

In the 17th century, slavery in the New World was by 
no means confined to the natives of Africa. Political of- 
fenders and criminals were transported by the British 
government to the plantations of Barbadoes and Virginia, 
where they were sold like cattle in the market. Kidnap- 
ping of free and innocent white persons was practised to 
a considerable extent in the seaports of the United King- 
dom. 

Note 19, page 171. 
Kossuth. 

It can scarcely be necessary to say that there are ele- 
ments in the character and passages in the history of the 
great Hungarian statesman and orator, which necessarily 
command the admiration of those, even, who believe that 
no political revolution was ever worth the price of human 
blood. 



302 NOTES. 

Note 20, page 177. 

" Homilies from Oldbug hear." 

Dr. W , author of " The Puritan," under the name 

of Jonathan Oldbug. 

Note 21, page 210. 
William Forster, of Norwich, England, died in East 
Tennessee, in the first month, 1854, while engaged in pre- 
senting to the governors of the States of this Union the ad- 
dress of his religious society, on the evils of slavery. Ho 
was the relative and coadjutor of the Buxtons, Gurneys, 
and Frys ; and his whole life, extending almost to three- 
score and ten years, was a pure and beautiful example of 
Christian benevolence. He had travelled over Europe, 
and visited most of its sovereigns, to plead against the 
slave-trade and slavery; and had twice before made 
visits to this country, under impressions of religious duty. 

Note 22, page 213. 
No more fitting inscription could be placed on the tomb- 
stone of Robert Rantoul than this: "He died at his post 
in Congress, and his last words were, a protest in the name 
of Democracy against the Fugitive Slave Law." 



Note 23, page 242. 
" Sebah, Oasis of Fezzan, 10th March, 1846.— This eve- 
ning the female slaves were unusually excited in singing, 
and I had the curiosity to ask my negro servant, Said, 
what they were singing about. As many of them were 
natives of his own country, he had no difficulty in trans- 
lating the Mandara or Bornou language. I had often asked 
the Moors to translate their songs for me, but got no satis- 
factory account from them. **aid at first said, ' 0, they 
sing of Rubee ' (God). 'What do you mean?' I replied, 
impatiently. ' 0, don't you know,' he continued, ' they 
asked God* to give them their Atka?' (certificate of free- 
dom.) I inquired, 'Is that all?' Said: 'No; they say, 
"Where are we going? The world is large. O God! 
where are we going ? God!" ' I inquired, ' What else ? ' 
Said: ' They remember their country, Bornou, and say, 
" Bornou was a pleasant country, full of all good things ; but 
this is a bad country, and we are' miserable ! " ' 'Do they 
Bay anything else? ' Said: ' No; they repeat these words 



NOTES. 303 

over and over again, and add, " God ! give us our Atka, 
and let us return again to our dear home.'''' ' 

" I am not surprised I got little satisfaction when I asked 
the Moors about the songs of their slaves. Who will 
say that the above words are not a very appropriate song ? 
"What could have been more congenially adapted to their 
then woful condition ? It is not to be wondered at that 
these poor bondwomen cheer up their hearts, in their long, 
lonely, and painful wanderings over the desert, with words 
and sentiments like these ; but I have often observed that 
their fatigue and sufferings were too great for them to 
strike up this melancholy dirge, and many days their 
plaintive strains never broke over the silence of the des- 
eit." — Richardson's Journal. 



Note 24, page 244 
One of the latest and most interesting items of Eastern 
news is the statement that Slavery has been formally and 
totally abolished in Egypt. 



Note 25, page 61. 
A letter from England, in the Friend's Review, says: 
" Joseph Sturge, with a companion, Thomas Harvey, 
has been visiting the shores of Finland, to ascertain the 
amount of mischief and loss to poor and peaceable suf- 
ferers, occasioned by the gun-boats of the Allied squad- 
rons in the late war, with a view to obtaining relief for 
them." 



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